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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24005989">Three Counts of Falling For Each Other</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespiritscalling/pseuds/thespiritscalling'>thespiritscalling</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Check Please! (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Cat Named Gritty, Alternate Universe - Noir, Detective!Ford, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Reporter!Tango, i wasn't lying the entire samwell supporting cast shows up at least once, set in an unspecified time with two (2) vague hockey references, whiskey is trying his best</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:35:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,480</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24005989</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespiritscalling/pseuds/thespiritscalling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Denice Ford has been investigating a series of burglaries for months but she can't catch a break and next month's art gala is putting her on a deadline.</p><p>Tony Tangredi has been reporting on the investigation as well as the crimes themselves. Somehow his boyfriend always seems to know details that Tony hasn't shared. Plus he's debating on if he should ask Detective Ford out for dinner or for comment.</p><p>Connor Whisk needs to pull off one last job to get himself out of the grips of the local mafia. He never should have asked them for help. He'll do whatever it takes to be free except put his boyfriend in danger, even when Tony keeps doing it unknowingly. </p><p> </p><p>inspired completely by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/21529081">this gifset</a></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Background Chris "Chowder" Chow/Caitlin Farmer - Relationship, Denice "Foxtrot" Ford/Tony "Tango" Tangredi/Connor "Whiskey" Whisk, background Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the before.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21529081">Three Counts of Falling for Each Other</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorsav/pseuds/sailorsav">sailorsav</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I didn't plan to write this. I saw the gifset and it broke into my brain in the middle of the night and wouldn't let me rest until I finished this.</p><p>the inspiration for this came from <a href="http://tangotangredi.tumblr.com">tangotangredi</a> on tumblr - check out her blog for the best graphics you've ever seen.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> It is, most certainly, a dark and stormy night. Late at night. Streetlights reflect off growing puddles on the asphalt. And across from the diner on Aspen avenue, next to a line of shattered glass and crumpled soda cans, there are footsteps, whispers: a group of five. Bags stuffed full of jewels. Black clothes, masks, you guessed it.</em> </p><p>
  <em> This is a robbery in progress, and we are right in the middle of it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They’ve chosen a good night. The dark clouds ensure longer shadows, all the easier to slip away and out of sight with. The rain will wash away any outside evidence. No one goes outside in the middle of a storm like this. There is no one to see them go. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This bank is the third of the month to be hit. Clean, precise, masterminded, even – a true heist for a group of men who know exactly what they need, what they want, and how they are getting it. Quick in, quick out. Leave no trace. Only the chaos of the deposit vault and a trail of broken glass tells that they were there. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oh, and the stolen diamonds, too. Jewelry. Metal. Shiny and eye-catching and absolutely priceless. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The group is splitting up, now, running away: one through the alley. One down the street. One up a fire escape. And as they go, here come the police – sirens, blaring red and blue through the glass-stained streets, lighting up the rain and cutting through the storm. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Like two sides to a coin. One there, another gone. A perpetual game of cat-and-mouse, doomed to continue, as the group continues to escape and the cars arrive too late. The song of a clock: a tick, and a tock, and a tick, and a tock. On and on and on into the clouded night.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>But really, it’s like this:</p><p>They stand in the deposit safe for longer than they should, because someone (probably Josh) has concerns about the transportation of the goods, and someone else (probably Jason) is ready to fight him, and they’re really not as well-oiled of a team as the news always makes them out to be.</p><p>Whiskey doesn’t contribute to the growing conversation. He’s seriously considering just taking his share and getting out of there, but, well. Gang business and all. He’d probably be shot.</p><p>So he stares impassively as their current leader, a supremely average-looking blond guy probably named Chad or something stupid like that, worms his way between the debating parties and announces, “No more arguments. We do this the way we planned and get back to base, all right?”</p><p>“No! Not all right! What’s stopping anyone from just running off without the divvy?” Josh is, notably, only worried about this because his transport share is significantly smaller than everyone else’s, and they agreed on a fair deal.</p><p>But Chad grins, not unlike a shark, and says, “Everyone here’s got somethin’ to lose, all right? Hop to it, boys, we all want to be cozy warm by morning. If anyone runs, they’re stepping in dog shit. Capiche?”</p><p>Josh grinds out a “caposh” and starts to edge out the door. So far, the bank has been silent. It was a smooth entry, careful and quiet, which means that the exit is free to be messy. Following their MO, or whatever. Whiskey genuinely could not care less.</p><p>Glass smashes out the front window. They climb out one after another, a neat line of black-cloaked figures with horrible, horrible secrets, and peel off into the darkness.</p><p>Whiskey jumps onto the nearest fire escape, mindful of the slick wetness from the rain, and pulls himself all the way to the top of the building. The road stretches out below him in both directions, a long line of sad businesses and bars. Off in the distance, he can hear police sirens.</p><p>He stands at the lip of the building and watches as the squad cars pull closer. The rain is heavier up here, battering away upon him and the roof tar, dripping off his nose and down, down onto the street. The cars come into view slowly – one, two, three, windshields growing until he can see the face of the nearest detective through it: Detective Ford, one of the only people on the force he truly has sympathy for, the woman in charge of wrestling these messes of heists into evidence. If he were a better person, they’d probably be friends.</p><p>She looks up, gaze wandering, and Whiskey steps away from the edge, melting back into the shadow the roof provides for him.</p><p>If all continues to go right, he’ll be home before Tony.</p><p> </p><p>Ford steps out of the car, glares at the shattered window and at the glittering shards of glass lining the street, and curses.</p><p>“Hey, boss,” greets one of her constables, hands stuffed in his pockets, frowning too at the destruction. “This is, what, number three?”</p><p>She allows herself one (and only one) self-pitying sigh, and then pulls her shoulders back, straightens her spine, and schools her features into a resemblance of determination. “Number three,” she confirms. “And I’m willing to bet it looks the same as the others.”</p><p>As the other cars pull up, she orders the constables to clear the building and waits for the forensics team to show up. The rain has lightened up a bit but it’s still steady, and if they’re not quick, most of what they have will be washed away in the gutters. There’s not much she can do without gloves, anyway.</p><p>She glances up at the corner of the adjacent building, a three-storey insurance company slash pharmacy, windows dark. There was something up there, briefly, as they had pulled up to the scene, but it was gone now. Maybe a bird, maybe a person. Maybe a thief. Almost definitely gone by now.</p><p>The constables return and the forensics car pulls up and she’s delegating, sending one man to guard the scene and another to talk to the woman who had called in the robbery; an older woman, standing under the canopy of the grocery store across the street, shawl wrapped around herself and shivering.</p><p>Third bank this month. Samwell’s a small place. There’s not much left.</p><p>And many questions remain, including <em> how are they getting in? </em> and <em> where are they doing their planning? </em> and <em> who are they? </em> and, most famously, <em> why do they keep getting away? </em></p><p>Only one of those questions has a potential answer, and that’s because Ford’s been on this case since the first bank. Each of the hits were centered around the safety deposit boxes rather than the central vaults – curious in itself, a question that was in the air for weeks – until she started to think in terms of skill rather than motivation. Smart enough to plan, to execute, and to succeed. Not quite high-level enough to break into a vault. Most likely the local gang.</p><p>“Mafia” if they’re going to be pretentious about it, which the news is a fan of being. But really. They’re a gang.</p><p>Denice Ford doesn’t want to be outsmarted by a gang. That doesn’t change the fact that she’s standing under the slight outcropping roof of the bank, twisting the edge of her scarf between her fingers, trying to figure out what they’re all missing.</p><p> </p><p>Tony exits the car and immediately drops his tape recorder on the ground. Which would be less of a problem if it wasn’t raining, but it lands solidly in a puddle and he has to swoop to rescue it before the inside gets damaged, which causes his backup notepad to slip out of his breast pocket and <em> also </em> into the puddle, and it’s far too late in the evening and he’s tired but this is his job and he’ll be <em> damned </em> if he doesn’t do it properly.</p><p>And then, naturally, the one person he’s been itching to talk to approaches when he’s flapping the pad, desperately trying to keep the pages dry, and looking sort of like he’s angry at the thing. “Hey,” says Detective Ford, eyebrows ticked up in an amused smile. “Need a hand?”</p><p>“I’m all right, Miss Ford,” says Tony quickly. “Just unfortunate circumstances, is all. How are you?”</p><p>Ford blows a breath through her lips and sighs. “Off the record, Tangredi, I’m exhausted. But of course you’re not going to go around telling the entire town that, are you?”</p><p>Tony lifts the hand not holding his pad and nods fervently. “Off the record, of course.”</p><p>Ford’s eyes shine in the light from the police cars, satisfied and – if Tony allows his mind to draw its own conclusions – a little more relaxed than he had seen her earlier, conversing with her constables. She seems unbothered by the rain. “I hope your materials aren’t ruined. We’ve had one heck of a time with evidence.” Behind her, the forensics team is wrapping up outside, scanning the perimeter for anything out of the ordinary, most likely coming up with no more than usual. Tony quickly flips on the recorder, hopes to God it works, and motions for her to keep going.</p><p>The pair of them are well-versed in this sort of thing now: Tony asks questions, Ford answers them, nothing too personal, nothing too invasive. Just enough to get a story out and enough to keep their jobs going smoothly.</p><p>And, okay, it’s dark and cold and Tony is sure that neither of them really want to be standing on the street commenting on this mess of a heist string, but he isn’t Samwell’s best crime reporter because he waits for the weather. Ford is dedicated and she knows how this goes.</p><p>They work well together. Even if they’re not technically working towards the same thing.</p><p>Tony finishes the last of his questions and flicks off the tape recorder. “Off the record, again,” he says, with a light smile, “I think you guys are getting close. You’ll figure it out.”</p><p>“I sure hope so,” says Ford. “It’s been lovely talking to you as always, Tangredi. I’ll look for your story in the paper tomorrow, yes?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” Tony says. It looks like it’ll be another night of writing rather than sleeping, waiting up for Connor, drinking more coffee than he should, if he wants this article to circulate in tomorrow’s edition. But for a moment, standing in the aftermath of a rainstorm and a robbery with someone who is arguably a great friend, Tony finds it hard to say goodbye.</p><p>Luckily, he’s saved the difficulty, as one of Ford’s constables calls her name. She sticks out a hand for Tony to shake. “I’d say I hope to see you soon, but that would mean another crime, wouldn’t it.”</p><p>Tony laughs. “Same to you, Detective. Have a good night.”</p><p>He checks the pages of his notepad as soon as he’s in his car – not a write-off, thank God, just a little crinkled and still slightly damp – and places his tape recorder gently on the passenger seat. Despite the mess that started this night, there is still room to make it a good night yet.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Papers spread across the dining table, a pile of pens to the right and the tape recorder to the left, and Tony has decided to take a nap in the middle of it.</p><p>At least, that’s what it looks like, when Connor gets home after his most recent late-shift. It’s three in the morning, Tony’s article is mostly written – although he’s most likely sleeping on it, and it’ll give him an inky cheek print – and if he’s honest, all Connor wants is to hit the bed and never get up again.</p><p>His hair is mostly dry, though, which means that the job wasn’t a total loss.</p><p>He collects a blanket from the couch and drapes it gently over Tony’s shoulders. Tony stirs slightly. “Hello?”</p><p>“I thought you’d be in bed,” whispers Connor.</p><p>“That was the – that was the plan,” whispers Tony, except he’s tired so it’s less whispering and more confused mumbling. “But there was a bank. And I had to go write because I’m <em> good </em> at my <em> job, </em>damn it.”</p><p>Connor rubs his hands along Tony’s biceps and gently pulls him to his feet. Sure enough, there’s a line of ink down Tony’s cheek, and Connor can vaguely make out the backward traces of the word <em> robbery. </em> Something fond flashes through his stomach. This is, against all odds, the man he’s elected to share a life with. And the ink smear only serves to be more endearing.</p><p>“Come on,” he says quietly, pointing Tony in the direction of the bedroom. “You’ve done what you can. Time to get some real sleep.”</p><p>Tony responds with some vague grunts and goes willingly, stumbling across the apartment until their knees knock the bed and they fall into it together, tangling into the blankets. Instinctively, Tony pats the bed until he finds Connor and winds his arms around his chest. “Thanks,” he says, and it’s impressively coherent. “Love you.”</p><p>He falls asleep immediately. Connor blinks at the ceiling.</p><p>“I love you too,” he says, and then, not for the first time, “It’ll be okay soon. I promise.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There’s a cat in the office.</p><p>Somehow, that’s not the weirdest thing that’s happened while Tony has been working at the <em> Samwell Journal </em>, especially when his bosses are Loud and Weird and have a strange affinity for office parties, but the cat is definitely new. It’s the first pet, at least.</p><p>(The man-shaped structures made of paper clips that appeared on every desk last year do <em> not </em> count as pets, thank you very much, even though Justin and Adam had named them each and given them personalities.)</p><p>So, naturally, Tony has to ask: “Who is this?”</p><p>He may have meant to say, <em> whose cat is this? </em>but it’s too late to take it back now. Even so, Derek – reclined in his chair with his feet on his desk, chewing on a pencil, in the desk adjacent to Tony’s – barely reacts as he says, “Oh, that’s Gritty.”</p><p>“Gritty?”</p><p>Gritty the Cat is brilliantly orange, lazing about on the floor next to the printers, licking a paw and staring at him. At the sound of her name, she yawns.</p><p>“TANGO!” screams one half of his boss, from somewhere in the depths of the office. “YOU INSIDE YET?”</p><p>“Coming!” calls Tony. He drops his bag on his chair and walks towards Adam and Justin’s office. Already the edits for the morning’s article are spinning in his head, layering words together to create a more cohesive story, painting last night’s robbery perfectly. Maybe it’s the reason why he loves this job so much: not only does it give him the chance to see the deep parts of town, to explore and investigate to his heart’s content, it allows him to spread this adventure to everyone else. And if people get informed, too, well – that’s always a bonus, being able to serve society.</p><p>He knocks on the editors’ door, listens for a brief summons, and then steps inside. And then dodges a balled-up sheet of paper thrown at him, because that’s how these meetings always seem to go. “Good morning.”</p><p>“A very good morning to you too, lovely Tango,” grins Adam. The office is occupied by one massive desk, one half designated to each boss, lined down the middle with pen cartons and stacks of paper. Today, Adam is on the side closest to the door. “I hear there was some action last night.”</p><p>“Yessir! One more to add to the list of bank robberies.” Tony bounces on the balls of his feet. “I’ve got most of the article written up, it just needs a rested eye and a few touch-ups.”</p><p>Justin points a pen at him. There’s a concerned tilt to his eyebrows. “<em> Rested eye? </em> If you keep pulling nights to write, one day you’re going to sleepwalk into the wrong building and we’re going to have to sell you to the <em> Gazette. </em> That’s a warning and a promise all in one. Do you want to spend the rest of your sad, sad days writing gossip columns?”</p><p>The <em> Gazette </em> is more or less a tabloid, and the thought of working there sends a shudder through Tony’s entire body. Still, he knows that Justin is mostly joking. “No, sir. Connor caught me in time.”</p><p>“Good man, that partner of yours,” muses Justin. “Finals for the morning edition are on my desk at 7am. Can you make it in time?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” says Tony, quietly crossing his fingers. Rewrites, edits, final copy – ten minutes. Or less. He takes a few steps back, hand on the doorknob. “Also – we have a cat now?”</p><p>“That’s Gritty,” both of his bosses say simultaneously. They don’t elaborate either.</p><p>Gritty is still staring at Tony when he gets back to his desk. Then, slowly, she continues to lick her paws.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>WELLS BANK THIRD IN ROBBERY STRING</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>Potential “Dissent in Ranks”, Police Says</em></b>
</p><p>
  <em>T. Tangredi</em>
</p><p>
  <em> A break-in at Wells Bank last night marks the third in a string of bank robberies that have crossed Samwell for the past month. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Called in at 11:00 in the evening by a neighbouring shopkeeper, police found the scene empty, though with significant property damage. Stolen goods include the contents of a number of safety deposit boxes and a portion of the bank’s personal assets. The vault was untouched. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This heist has perfectly followed the timeline of the past two, allowing the police to match the pattern: a late-night break-in, maximum ten minutes inside, only making sound upon exit. The exit destruction, as evidenced in said bank’s property damages, is more of a “gloat” than anything else, says police. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The lead investigator on the robbery string, Detective Denice Ford, reports the crime as “another shortcoming” on the side of the police. However, the Wells Bank crime scene seems to be “sloppier” than the scenes from Fund &amp; Enterprise (two weeks ago) and Samwell Financial (last month). </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’m taking this as a sign of dissent in the ranks,” Ford says. “Perhaps they are not as able as they believe to be. This brings about a tendency to push schedules, to get cocky, to get it done. I’m confident that a mistake will be made that allows us to finally catch up to them.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Does this mean that the police are counting on another break-in? “We can all hope not,” says Ford. “The force is upping patrols and giving protection to the remaining banks in town. The idea is to finally nip this in the bud. However, I encourage any citizens to report suspicious activity in and around banks or other high-ranking facilities. With luck and a little bit of community vigilance, this might be the last we see of these robberies.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We have our certainty on the identity of the group as a whole,” she says, when asked about the criminals themselves, “But we are not disclosing that information at the time.” Releasing specifics may affect the progress of the case. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wells Bank encourages any patron who may have had items stolen to make contact. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You are impressively well-spoken, Dee,” says Caitlyn, leaning sideways across the desk and poking Ford with the rolled-up newspaper. “That, or that cute reporter is making you sound way better than you are.”</p><p>Ford grabs the newspaper. “The article’s already out?”</p><p>“And pretty hot, too.” Caitlyn sniffs. “Man, if only all of us in the force had as much publicity as you do.”</p><p>“Get yourself on a case that impacts rich white men,” says Ford, “and you, too, can become a media sensation! But honestly, these robberies are kicking my <em> ass </em> and I really hope they’re over soon.”</p><p>Caitlyn makes a contemplative face, and then says, “Yeah, okay. Rich white men control everything. You’re not wrong. But hey, if you ever need an extra set of eyes, my desk is painfully empty at all times of the day.”</p><p><em> “Our </em> desk,” corrects Ford. Caitlyn whispers a <em> whatever </em> and returns to her own work.</p><p>Ford has been on the Samwell force for almost five years. Farmer has been her partner – in crimefighting <em> and </em> in physical desk space – for three of those years. Ford has spent none of those years enthused about paperwork and actual <em> research </em>.</p><p>Alas, the stack of reports on her desk indicates otherwise.</p><p>Most of them are irrelevant. Maybe even all of them. But the problem is that Ford doesn’t know <em> which </em> ones are irrelevant, because each one is a detail of a minor break-in, like gas stations or smash-and-grabs, and <em> any </em> of them could be somehow connected to the gang and the robberies and everything else that’s been clamouring for space in her overstuffed brain.</p><p>But also. This is what having underlings is for.</p><p>“Hopper!” she screams, hoping it’ll be enough for at least one of her constables to hear. Where one goes, the others follow, usually, so it’s not a surprise when all three of them show up at her desk, wide-eyed and ready to be put to work.</p><p>“Boss,” says River, not Hopper, but it’s fine.</p><p>“I need some eyes,” she says, and she drops the massive stack of reports down on her desk with a solid-sounding thump. “Any consistencies with the bank heists, any at all – even if it’s something as simple as length of time or <em> slight </em> detail. We need to whittle this down a bit.”</p><p>She divides the stack into four, hands a quarter to each constable, and watches them all scatter to their corners of the office to do their own work.</p><p>“Effective,” says Caitlyn. “Wish I had a small horde of young men at my every beck and call.”</p><p>Ford lifts her head, catches Landmann throwing a pen at Hopper. “They can be handy,” she agrees. “You know, when they actually do their work.” She raises her voice at the last three words and hears a small chorus of apologies.</p><p>Caitlyn grins.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Whiskey will ardently deny that he’s in deep shit, but, okay, he’s in deep shit.</p><p>(He’s been in deep shit for a long time. Somehow he managed to dig it deeper, sometime around the point of last year or so, and trying to crawl out has been a slow and painstaking process.)</p><p>He’s standing in front of Chad, and Chad has this tightness to his face that means he’s thinking of something horrible, and all Whiskey really wants to do is punch him in the average-looking jaw and go home and kiss his boyfriend. But that’s not an option.</p><p>“If I remember correctly,” says Chad, “<em> you’re </em> the one who came to <em> me </em> begging for a favor.”</p><p>“And I’d say it’s been well repaid by now,” Whiskey says, voice low and controlled, because if he doesn’t control it then he’ll probably get mad and be stuck with the gang for the rest of his short and miserable life.</p><p>Chad raises an eyebrow. “You’d say. <em> You’d </em> say. Of course you would. But the problem with that, Whiskey-boy, is that you’re not the one making the rules in these parts.”</p><p>Whiskey’s stomach drops.</p><p>“But,” says Chad, “you’ve been quite a loyal chum, so I’ll let you off with a deal. You stick with us, no holds barred, for one more big job. Give up your cut from said job. Don’t tell a soul. And if, at the end of it, we’re all still standing, you ain’t got beef with us anymore.”</p><p>Which is… actually a better deal than Whiskey was expecting. Chad had a tendency to be cruel. And there’s a lot of things that Whiskey would do to finally leave this hellhole of a gang, and Chad could have exploited any number of those instead, so.</p><p>“What’s the job?”</p><p>“Ah, my good man,” Chad says, taking that as an acceptance and slinging an arm around Whiskey’s shoulders. “I am so glad you asked.”</p><p> </p><p>Naturally, there’s kind of a catch. Yes, okay, they’re doing another big heist at another big fancy place in the city, and yes, there’s a lot of expensive stuff and maybe stick-it-to-the-corporate-assholes. But there’s also the fact that it may come with a lot of civilian injuries (maybe even deaths) and that’s not something Connor wants or needs.</p><p>He almost says no. But then Chad looks at him with the same shark-face he saw at the bank, and everything kind of goes cold, and Chad says, “How’s your twink doing?”</p><p>A stark reminder that Chad knows everything about his gang members, including where best to hurt them and how to keep them in line.</p><p>“Fine,” Whiskey grits out. “And it’s going to stay that way.”</p><p>“Oh, is it,” Chad says conversationally, as if he hasn’t just threatened said twink, and, by extension, Whiskey’s entire life.</p><p>Sometimes Whiskey considers getting the <em> fuck </em> out of Samwell. Maybe Tony would come with him. Maybe they’d break up. Sometimes he considers breaking up with Tony anyway, just to keep him out of the line of fire, but he knows that would never work. Tony has too much brilliant curiosity in him to let a suspicion like that go to waste.</p><p>(And then he thinks of the <em> look </em> Tony would have if he just up and left without a trace, and that shuts down that train of thought pretty quickly.)</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>River is the last to drop his stack of reports back on Ford’s desk. “Found a couple possibilities,” he says. “They’re on the top. The rest are separated by the bookmark. Also, I alphabetized them.”</p><p>Ford picks the first report off the stack and scans it. “I’m impressed, River, thank you. This will work great.”</p><p>“’Course,” he says – man of few words – and lingers only to say, “Anything else?”</p><p>“No, thank you, I’m sure you’ve got your own work to do.”</p><p>River nods and retreats back to the table with the others. Ford throws the paper she’s holding back onto the pile, picks it up again, and then sighs.</p><p>“All right?” asks Caitlyn.</p><p>Currently, their desk is separated with the rolled-up newspaper from earlier. Ford frowns at it. “Actually,” she says, “I’m not sure.”</p><p>She unrolls the paper and finds Tony’s article straightaway. It’s on the lower front page, which had given her a strange flash of pride when she’d first seen it. Now she zeroes in on the specifics.</p><p>
  <em> This heist has perfectly followed the timeline of the past two, allowing the police to match the pattern: a late-night break-in, maximum ten minutes inside, only making sound upon exit. </em>
</p><p>“Tangredi,” she says to herself, “I never told you that part.”</p><p>And then her heart beats in her ears and she shifts in her chair and her brain repeats the realization she has just made: Tangredi knows things about the case that he’s not supposed to know.</p><p>This means many things, and each thing could mean other things, and now her brain is starting to plot out evidence trees, potential scenarios leafing out from every branch.</p><p> </p><p>Possibility 1: Tangredi is a part of the bank-heist gang that calls itself the Samwell mafia.</p><p>Things that could happen if possibility 1 is true:</p><p>     1. Ford asks him about it. He kills her.</p><p>     2. Ford asks him about it. He doesn’t kill her but also disappears off the face of the earth, and the gang disappears with him, and the case is never truly <em>solved.</em></p><p>     3. Ford doesn’t ask him about it. She sits on it, continually wondering every time they look at each other if he truly is the bane of her existence and if he is laughing at her incompetence.</p><p>     4. Ford doesn’t ask him about it. They arrest him next time there’s a bank heist and she has to rethink her entire people-judging skill and maybe even taste in friends entirely.</p><p> </p><p>Possibility 2: Tangredi is <em> not </em> a part of the bank-heist gang.</p><p>Things that could happen if possibility 2 is true:</p><ol>
<li>    Ford asks him where the information came from.</li>
</ol><p>1.1.  He has an alternate source and gives up said alternate source.</p><p>1.2.  He says <em>magic</em> and disappears into the mist, never to be seen again.</p><p>1.3.  He doesn’t disclose the information and Ford is left, once again, to wonder forever.</p><ol>
<li>    Ford does not ask him where the information came from.</li>
</ol><p>2.1.  Is that bad police work? Is that illegal?????</p><p>2.2.  She will go the rest of her life not knowing how Tangredi knows anything he knows, potentially sending her spiraling into a crisis lasting years and potentially causing her retirement.</p><p> </p><p>There’s really only one way to figure out how any of this might go. So, thinking of each potential scenario in excruciating detail, Ford reaches for her phone.</p><p>
  <em> “Samwell Journal, Birkholtz speaking.” </em>
</p><p>Ford sticks her finger into the coil of the phone cable and swirls it gently. “Hi, this is Detective Ford from the Samwell Police. Is your crime reporter in? Tangredi?”</p><p><em> “Uh,” </em> says Birkholtz, and then there’s a small thud, like the phone was placed on the desk, and Ford can still hear the conversation clearly. <em> “Is Tango still at his desk?” </em></p><p><em> “Yeah, man, he’s staring at the cat,” </em> says an unfamiliar voice.</p><p>Ford jolts the phone away from her ear as Birkholtz screams, “<em> Tango! Phone!” </em> There’s another scraping sound, and then his voice comes back somewhat more level. <em> “One second, ma’am.” </em></p><p>One more click. The phone cord slips from between Ford’s thumb and forefinger, tapping back against the desk with a muted sort of sound. Belatedly, she picks it up again, then drops it, then grabs a pen and starts to spin it. Maybe it’s nervous energy; the idea that she could be getting deep into something she isn’t ready for is making her fingers tingle and her knee jolt against the bottom of the desk.</p><p><em> “Tangredi, speaking,” </em>comes out of the phone, and Ford breathes out a sigh and sucks it back in all at once.</p><p>“Good afternoon,” she says, “it’s Detective Ford.”</p><p>
  <em> “Miss Ford! How are you?” </em>
</p><p>“All right.” She’s choosing her words carefully, and she grimaces because it probably sounds strained, like she’s angry at him. Is she? Or is this merely a pursuit of curiosity? “Yourself?”</p><p><em> “Oh, you know,” </em> says Tangredi. <em> “Busy, I guess. Did you know that the Wells Bank opened in 1845? I mean, you probably do, but that was just an extra bit of information I picked up in my research. Also, the office has a cat now, and I’m not sure where she came from and no one feels like telling me. Weird, isn’t it?” </em></p><p>For a moment, Ford feels so confident: this is a rambling, endearing, mild-mannered reporter, not a gang member, and it’s so clear that she considers apologizing and hanging up straight away. But then she kicks herself. <em> Don’t underestimate anyone. </em>It’s an important rule in policework.</p><p>“Very odd,” she agrees. “I was wondering if we could chat about your article.”</p><p><em> “My article,” </em> Tangredi repeats skeptically. <em> “Why, is something wrong with it? Oh, no, did I make you sound bad? I’m so sorry! I’d fix it if I could, honestly, but once it’s in print- well. You know.” </em></p><p>The feeling is back again, which is wholly unhelpful because now she wants to spend breath assuaging his worries rather than figuring out her own. “No, no, nothing like that. I was just curious. About, uh… journalism.” It’s a flimsy excuse. She grimaces again. At least this isn’t a face-to-face conversation.</p><p>Tangredi is silent for a while. <em> “Journalism. Okay! Well, you know, there’s always a lot to talk about. If you’re interested in it. History of the newspapers in Samwell, school, all that good stuff. And hey, I’m pretty full for the next couple’a days, but if you’d be all right with joining us for dinner, we could always talk there.” </em></p><p>“Us?” says Ford, as if that’s the most important part of what he said.</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah. My partner, Connor, he’s a really awesome cook. If you’re all right with coming over, and meeting him, and – yeah. I didn’t really have a third one there.” </em>
</p><p>Quickly, she mulls this over: going to dinner with someone who may or may not be a part of the Samwell ““mafia”” (she <em> refuses </em> to call it that) and his partner (boyfriend? partner in crime? <em> both? </em>) could be the last time anyone ever sees her alive, but there’s a reason she’s a part of the force in the first place, and it’s not because she sits on decisions and plays it safe.</p><p>Besides, she can hold her own, and it’s not like Tangredi’s a complete stranger. Hell, she would probably start calling him Tony if it wasn’t unprofessional. They’re almost friends.</p><p>A dinner with friends. Nothing more.</p><p>(But also, a spicy new level of danger.)</p><p>“You know what?” she says into the phone. “That sounds perfect. What day and what time?”</p><p><em> “What about tomorrow? Thursday Night Dinners are totally a thing in our apartment, but it’s cool if you join us. I can pick you up from the station on my way home, around six thirty.” </em> Tangredi’s voice is leaping, like her acceptance is a pleasant surprise. <em> “Unless that’s, like, too much for you. I can always just give you our address and you can bring yourself. If that’s more comfortable.” </em></p><p>“Six thirty sounds great. I’ll be waiting.”</p><p>
  <em> “Fantastic! I’ll let Connor know. He’ll be happy to meet you, too.” </em>
</p><p>Slowly, all of her apprehension drains away until Ford is left exclusively with a muted excitement. It’s been a while since she’s met up for dinner with friends – really, anything more than a coffee, and that was with Farmer at <em> least </em> half a year ago – and, okay, she’s not antisocial, but. She’s busy a lot of the time. And that often means Not A Lot of Social Time.</p><p>She and Tangredi bid their goodbyes, then she places the phone back in its cradle and leans back in her chair.</p><p>Something integral in her life seems to have changed over the course of this conversation. She’s not sure what it is, yet; the world is the same, the office is the same, Caitlyn is still doing her work quietly, and if Ford cranes her neck she can see the shuttered window of Captain Duan’s office. Still, something is different. She can’t tell if that something has slid out of place or finally slid in.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tony tells Connor to make extra Thursday Night Dinner, because they’re having a guest, and Connor says three things in rapid succession: “You mean <em> our </em> Thursday Night Dinner? You have friends? Who is it?”</p><p>Obviously, that’s a yes, so Tony tells him everything, and he’s so enthused about having a friend over that Connor can see his eyes literally sparkling. The excitement radiating from him is just enough to keep his mind off the fact that the <em> active investigation on the bank hits is going to be actively investigating in his home, eating his food. </em></p><p>He hides what apprehension he has well enough. It’ll be nice to have someone else judge his cooking, even if said someone else has the potential to arrest him. Tony is head over heels with everything he makes, and though it’s completely endearing, he would like an honest opinion.</p><p>So Thursday Night Dinner rolls around, and Connor is standing over a lightly simmering saucepan on the stove when Tony and The Detective come home. He calls out a quick greeting to be polite (the sauce was supposed to thicken already, which means taking his eyes off it for a second would be a mistake) and listens to the familiarities: Tony fumbling with his shoes, sticking his jacket on the rack, asking for The Detective’s jacket.</p><p>He doesn’t really plan on getting arrested tonight, but – if the situation calls for it, he’s not running from it. <em> Best enjoy the evening while it lasts, Whiskey. </em></p><p>Tony loops his arms around Connor’s waist in greeting, drops a light kiss on his cheek, and if he leans into the hold a little more than usual, well. That’s his own business and no one else’s, thank you very much.</p><p>“Connor!” says The Detective. “It’s fantastic to meet you, really.”</p><p>Connor takes the saucepan off its burner and taps the spoon out. He turns around next, sticking his hand out for The Detective to shake, and is immediately caught off-guard.</p><p>He knew that The Detective was pretty, but holy <em> shit. </em></p><p>She shakes his hand firm and kind. “I’m Denice,” she says. “I work at the police department.”</p><p>“Connor,” he says back, hoping that the growl in his voice sounds rough and not hopelessly choked. “I, uh, I work at the rink across town. Nice to meet you too.”</p><p>Denice grins, bright and beautiful. Her nails are the colour of a tide pool, rich and blue-green and in fabulous contrast to her dark skin. Connor turns on his heel to face the stove again and ignores the prickling on the back of his neck – Tony is watching him with a knowing look, and he doesn’t want to have this silent conversation right now. Fortunately, the sauce is of perfect consistency now.</p><p>“Get yourselves settled,” he says, waving a hand towards the dinner table. “Denice, would you like wine?”</p><p> </p><p>Dinner is somehow more and less awkward than he thought it would be. More so because Denice is almost clearly still working on her investigation, asking Tony questions about the case that he’s more than happy to answer, despite not knowing much about it. Connor has quick answers for most of the questions already in his head, but speaking would essentially out him as a criminal, and that would ruin the night. It’s less awkward because Tony is getting the brunt of the questions, leaving Connor to his own (mostly food-related) devices. Once the line of questioning is dropped, they’re left with pleasant company and nothing less than a good time. Denice talks about her station squad, how she loves each of her constables, the office gossip about their Captain and their in-house lawyer, her desk partner and her husband. Tony responds most eagerly with tales of his bosses.</p><p>“When I first got the job, they sat me down in their office and stared at me for a full two minutes,” he’s saying. “No speaking. Just glaring me down, and if they’re trying to intimidate me, it’s completely working. They’re <em> giants. </em> But then one of them checks his watch – it was Justin – and then he says, and I quote, ‘Holtzy, we’re keeping this one’, and sticks me on crime right away. Not that I’m complaining, because this job is pretty much a dream come true. But it was a scary first day. Since then, though…”</p><p>Connor has heard this all before, but he can’t help but watch Tony’s hands fly as he tells his story, a little breathless but obviously speaking with his entire heart and soul. It’s one of the things that had drawn him to Tony in the first place, one of the things he’s able to fall in love with every time they sit down together and just talk, one of the things he’ll probably always think about with a stupid little smile on his face.</p><p>God, he loves Tony so much it hurts.</p><p>To think that it’ll get better after he finally gets rid of the LAX, that he’ll finally have time to devote himself fully to the operation at the rink and to making time for his boyfriend. It used to be a distant dream. But now, his release date has a mark in the calendar.</p><p>Denice glances at Connor as Tony begins a tangent about the cat. The corners of her eyes are tight with laughter, and she gives Connor another knowing look. Immediately he knows that he’s making his heart eyes again, and tries to shutter them quickly, but it’s too late. Now she’s laughing at them both.</p><p>It’s not a horrible feeling, to laugh with someone, to share this brilliance that is listening to a Tangredi Tangent with someone who looks like she understands. If anything, Connor is feeling… warm.</p><p>
  <em> For God’s sake, Whiskey, you’ve committed the crimes that she’s investigating. </em>
</p><p>But she declared his <em> quesadilla </em> “the best bread she’s ever had” and has begun to kick their asses at Scrabble, chirping Tony the whole time for not knowing words despite being a writer, and every time she looks at him he gets a swooping sensation in his stomach that mimics the one he gets when Tony kisses his neck, and <em> fuck </em>.</p><p>Tony hooks their ankles together under the table. Suddenly, almost viscerally, Connor wants this evening to last forever.</p><p> </p><p>Denice takes her leave eventually, thanking them both profusely for a wonderful night, and she points at Connor and demands the <em> quesadilla </em> recipe at some point, and when she’s gone Tony immediately jumps back into his arms. “Did you have fun?”</p><p>“You know,” says Connor, wrapping his arms more fully around Tony’s shoulders and pressing them tightly together, “I think that’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”</p><p>“Me too.” Tony grins up at him and it’s impossible to resist the urge to kiss him on the forehead. “She’s great, isn’t she? I should ask her around again.”</p><p>“Give the lady a chance to breathe first, maybe.”</p><p>Tony nods thoughtfully. “Maybe some other time, then,” he says. Then he looks back at Connor with a growing smirk. “We’ve got all the time in the world, after all.”</p><p>Connor picks him up (because he can, and because Tony’s resulting squawk is cute) and carries him across the apartment to the bedroom. “It’s late. Let’s sleep.”</p><p>“Anything for you, my prince,” says Tony, with a stupid grin.</p><p>Connor is so far gone it’s not even funny.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tony is <em> not </em> part of the gang.</p><p>Tony also didn’t explain how he got the information, Ford realizes the next day, and somehow she didn’t notice. Eventually she had gotten swept up in the flow of the conversation and dropped the investigation completely, sat back and enjoyed herself for the first time in a long time, and it felt good.</p><p>Ah, well. Maybe she’ll just have to live with the mystery that is <em> Tony Tangredi’s Information Source. </em></p><p>She <em> does </em> know that Tony’s boyfriend is fabulous in the kitchen, that Tony is horrible at word games despite being a reporter, and that he’s got a comfortable life, one that needs no bank-robbery supplementation. She also knows that Connor doesn’t speak much, but when he does it’s important or quietly hilarious, and he’s very, very obviously in love.</p><p>It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, seeing two people who love each other so. Farmer’s husband crashes into the office biweekly, happy as can be, often presenting her with flowers or a forgotten lunch or (on one memorable occasion) a “very cool I saw it and thought of you” rock.</p><p>Ford thinks of it and is happy, and then she thinks of Tony and Connor and is happy.</p><p>“Hey,” says Caitlyn, scooting back over to the edge of her space. “Has the Captain talked to you about the art gala yet?”</p><p>“Art gala,” Ford says, racks her brain for a second, and then remembers: “Yes! We talked about it last week. The one at the museum, right? Celebrating the anniversary of the town.”</p><p>Caitlyn snaps her fingers. “That’s the one. Man, you must be pressed, especially with the current investigation. Are you sure you don’t want to, like, switch?” </p><p>The Art Gala in question is, indeed, a rather fancy occasion to celebrate some centennial or another. Ford hasn’t done a lot of research into it, yet. Allowing some officers to mingle with the rich folk (and less-rich folk who have somehow managed to score tickets) is “good publicity”, apparently, with the added bonus of “protection for the one percent”. Not that Ford cares greatly about that part. But she’s been invited, as has a few others in the precinct, and she’s mostly looking forward to the art, the history of it all, and a night to relax. </p><p>Caitlyn’s husband also works at said museum, so. </p><p>“I’m good,” she tells Caitlyn, smiling sweetly. “But if you want to live vicariously through me, just say the word and I <em> will </em> get drunk with Chris.”</p><p>“Please don’t,” says Caitlyn, “he’s a cuddly drunk.”</p><p>The <em> idea </em> is to have the bank robberies over, done with, a thing of the past by the time the gala rolls around. Ford isn’t totally sure of the probability. But their investigation hasn’t been for naught; one or two more weeks might do it. They’ll be in the clear soon.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the during.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s Saturday, a week and a half after dinner with Denice, and the apartment phone rings. Once, twice, then cut off in the middle of the third. Whiskey’s heart drops to his stomach.</p><p>Tony is laying on the couch with his feet also on Whiskey’s stomach, reading. He glances up at the phone. “Weird. Do you think they meant to do that?”</p><p>Whiskey shrugs. The answer is yes, they meant to do that, it means <em> the next time we ring you’d better answer it or you’re in deep fucking shit, </em> but Tony is Not Allowed to Know That. He picks up Tony’s feet, places them gently back on the couch, and excuses himself for a drink of water.</p><p>(He excuses himself to take a phone call.)</p><p><em> “Whiskey,” </em> says Chad, on the other line, when Whiskey picks up again. <em> “Listen, buddy, I need your help.” </em></p><p><em>"You</em> need <em> my </em> help,” says Whiskey. “Is this what we agreed on? I don’t think so.”</p><p>
  <em> “We agreed that you’d get out in a few weeks. Until that happens, you’re still mine.” </em>
</p><p>Whiskey keeps his voice low because he doesn’t want to freak out Tony, but the string of expletives that he presents to Chad are carefully chosen for the situation. “Tell me you’re not going to throw me to the dogs right now, yeah? What the fuck is going on?”</p><p>He can hear Chad’s smile on the end of the line. <em> “Feisty. We need a pickup. Corner of Sycamore and Seventh.” </em></p><p>“What the <em> fuck </em> did you do.”</p><p>
  <em> “Well, you’ll just have to find out, won’t you? Unless you don’t come, in which case, I can’t be held liable for what happens next. To you or, you know, anyone else.” </em>
</p><p>Whiskey wants nothing more than to stuff his fist so far into Chad’s mouth that it comes out the other side. Instead, he grits his teeth and growls, “Fine. Just so you know, any respect I ever had for you is currently in the drain.”</p><p>
  <em> “Oh, how cute. You don’t need to respect me. You just need to be scared of me.” </em>
</p><p>The slam of the phone back into its cradle brings Tony wandering quietly into the room, a concerned question already on his features. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“I have to go,” says Whiskey, begging his fists to unclench. He regards Tony in his socks, rumpled slightly from the couch with the top two buttons undone, and lets the image flow through his blood, relaxing him. “Emergency at the rink. The usual late-evening shift hasn’t shown up yet and they’ve got someone coming in in half an hour.”</p><p>He hates how easily the lie rolls off his tongue. He hates even more the wide, accepting eyes Tony gives him as he nods, completely understanding. “I’m sorry that’s happening,” he says, “but if you need to go, then go. It was going to be a quiet night anyway.”</p><p>Whiskey kisses him, just long enough for Tony’s hands to fly to his cheeks and gently deepen it, and then he pulls away. “I love you,” he says. He probably doesn’t say it enough.</p><p>Tony’s cheeks are pink. “I love you too,” he says. Then he shoves Whiskey towards the door. “Now <em> go. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>It’s not good. The police are on them mere <em> seconds </em> after Chad and two others climb into his car, and he barely has time to slip on the mask that Chad chucks at him before he has a face-full of blinding police headlights. He doesn’t even <em> know </em> what Chad wanted from this.</p><p>Chad is screaming in his ear, a combination of “fucking <em> go! </em>” and “Jesus fucking Christ” and other colourful curses. Whiskey throws the car into reverse, prays for traction on the crumbling road, and tries something that resembles a J-turn. The tires dig into the pavement too much; there’s far too much screeching for what they’re trying to do and Whiskey is probably pressing the pedal too hard.</p><p>They make the 180 and Whiskey looks back at the road and staring at him is Detective Ford, face hardened into a mask of stone, pointing her issued pistol at the windshield.</p><p>Whiskey freezes. For a moment, he’s sure she recognizes him. He’s wearing a mask, yes, but the weight of her glare is such that it’s peeling away bits of him, opening him up for the world to see.</p><p>
  <em> “What the fuck are you doing man just step on it and get us the fuck out of here!” </em>
</p><p>Chad’s screech in his ear shakes him back to reality. He gives Ford one last look, praying for the slightest bit of forgiveness – <em> I don’t want to be here, </em> he tries to make his eyes say, but he probably just looks crazed like the rest of them – and guns it to the side.</p><p>There’s a few pistol shots. The driver’s side window shatters and Whiskey flinches but continues to drive, cutting corners and taking alleys all the while going far faster than he should. All the way back to the seedy LAX complex that houses the deals and the planning and the grunt work.</p><p>He throws the car into park and sits back and breathes.</p><p>“Holy fuck,” grins Chad, once more gleeful about having evaded the police. “That was fucking close, dude.” He holds his hand out in a fist. Whiskey pushes it away. “Whatever, dude. You get some of the cut since you pulled us the fuck out of that.”</p><p>Whiskey holds up a hand for the first time at that, taking casual note of the pain that laces up his inner forearm. “No.”</p><p>“No, you don’t want to be paid? The fuck?”</p><p>“No,” Whiskey repeats. “I’ll do the fucking gala job. But you don’t get to pull me in like this again. I’m not doing it again. I don’t care what you try to threaten me with.”</p><p>Chad is silent for a while, narrowed eyes and open mouth, but then he shrugs. “Your loss.”</p><p>The rest of the crew slips out of the car, giddy at their success. Whiskey stays seated, takes stock of himself: Inner right arm. Something’s bleeding there, but it’s not horrible. A bit of rope burn on his collarbone from the seatbelt. His lower back aches something fierce, too, and he’s not sure from which particular manoeuvre that stems. Left knuckles tight against the steering wheel, almost locked that way.  His left shoulder is also bleeding. That one seems marginally more serious.</p><p>But nothing is life-threatening, so Whiskey leans forward, presses his forehead against the steering wheel, and takes long, regulated breaths. “Fuck.”</p><p>How is he going to explain this to Tony? <em> Got in an accident. </em> But where’s the other car? Where’s the official report? Why is there no sign of car-on-car impact? <em> Some hooligan broke the window. </em> But there’s glass all over him, too. <em> I was targeted. </em></p><p>That one’s closest to the truth, he supposes, but not close enough.</p><p>In the end, he parks in an alley a few blocks out from the LAX complex and painstakingly clears out every piece of evidence that might say that the car is his. Covers the window with a random sheet caught in the fence. Hopes that it looks abandoned.</p><p>On the way home, he gets mugged. He doesn’t, really, but it’s a good enough explanation for the cuts and bruises and general tremor that hasn’t yet gone away, and – it’s horrible to admit this, it really is, but Whiskey can protest that he’s not necessarily a <em> good </em> man – he’ll be happy, for a little while, under the attention Tony will inevitably give to him following his guaranteed tizzy.</p><p>(There absolutely is a guaranteed tizzy. Most of it is questions. Most of those questions are avoided through proclamations of tiredness and bouts of kissing.) </p><p>(Whiskey hates lying to Tony, but this isn’t the worst thing he’s done.)</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Ford places her mug of coffee down on her desk, sits down heavily, glares at the empty office, and screams.</p><p>Just once. Briefly.</p><p>She’s not even supposed to be <em> working </em> today. But the gang decided to do some sort of spontaneous mid-level art store robbery or something, and that turned into a near-miss and one joke of a shootout and the fact that, once again, she’s failed to catch them.</p><p>For God’s sake, her life could be a joke. Or a television program. Or some sort of elongated failure that parents tell their kids to ensure the kids make “smart choices”, whatever that means, and she’s the moral wrong.</p><p>There’s not even much to go over, but it’s fresh so it’s work. Hell, maybe she’ll take a day off in the middle of the week, just because she <em> can </em>, just because she’s put in so much overtime with the gang investigation that she basically lives at the office now.</p><p>Evidence they have:</p><ul>
<li>Glass pieces from the car.</li>
<li>A list of things stolen from the art store.</li>
<li>The eyes of the driver, wide and gold and familiar, in the same kind of way the answer to a factoid is familiar – not quite able to be recalled, but she <em>knows</em> she knows them, and the truth will haunt her.</li>
<li>A few footprints from the rush.</li>
</ul><p>At least, Ford thinks with satisfaction, this time she caught them off-guard.</p><p>She starts sketching out ideas on a pad of empty paper. If nothing else, she’ll have a reference to look back to later in the week, when she inevitably forgets everything about last night.</p><p>Her mind keeps going back to the eyes. Not just because she knows them (although that is a particularly frustrating part of it) but because there was something <em> there. </em> It wasn’t the same impassive look of some criminals she’s met, nor was it an adrenaline-filled high. It was begging her for something.</p><p>“Who are you?” she asks aloud, tracing her pen in a loose circle at the bottom corner of the pad. “What do you want from me?” </p><p>Unfortunately, those are questions she can’t answer.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tony spends a good portion of his Sunday making sure Connor stays in bed, stays hydrated, eats, stays in bed, is happy for a little bit, and – most importantly – does not irritate his injuries, thank you very much, because that would be bad for the both of them.</p><p>The weirdest part of it all is that Connor goes along with it. It’s not that he’s usually insufferable when he’s sick (or, God forbid, injured), but – he is. Tony has, in the past, traced it back to two main points featuring <em> slight trust issues </em> and <em> trouble opening up to new people </em>. Which shouldn’t be an issue, because they’ve been dating for long enough, but still. Some things are just harder to shake.</p><p>Not that Tony is complaining. He slots himself next to Connor for most of the day, writing an article for tomorrow’s paper and working on the crossword from Friday’s, and Connor reads and occasionally makes a small comment on the characters’ antics, and it’s almost normal.</p><p>Except that Connor got <em> mugged </em> last night, and Tony is (rightfully) <em> really fucking worried. </em></p><p>Even Connor shouldn’t be able to just shake off something like that and be fine in the morning. Not when he’d been trembling like a leaf when he’d gotten home, depleted of energy and looking at Tony like everything might break apart if the slightest thing went wrong. He’d say that the night’s sleep did them both well, but.</p><p>There’s probably something more to that.</p><p>Tony calls Ford, just in case she can help. She sends her reassurances that they’ll look into it. They talk for a little while longer about things that are Not Work and it’s nice. Ford is a solid, outer presence to temper the whirlwind of his emotions.</p><p>(That evening, as Connor is pretending to take a nap to get Tony off his back, Ford shows up with a small basket of goods. Partly as belated thanks for the original dinner party and partly as a feel-safer-soon package. There’s food. A lot of food. And a <em> Scrabble </em> dictionary for Tony.)</p><p>(Tony mumbles out loud about the dictionary, and Connor stops pretending to be asleep just to laugh at him.)</p><p>(Tony really loves that man.)</p><p> </p><p>Monday morning rolls around, and Tony delivers a clean, edited, not-written-at-3am-thanks-Justin article to his bosses.</p><p>“Actually,” says Adam, as Tony is just about to leave their office, “wait a second.”</p><p>Tony spins on his heel. Adam is looking vaguely like he’s about to deliver bad news, but also sometimes his face just gets like that. Sometimes Adam has odd opinions on what constitutes <em> bad news, </em> so troubling proclamations have included things like <em> we’re going to have to move your desk away from the window </em> and <em> you have to stop accidentally stealing pens and never bringing them back </em> and <em> we’re sorry to tell you that the company mascot got dropped in the trash last night </em>.</p><p>It’s Justin who speaks first. “We’ve been very impressed with your work lately, Tango.”</p><p>“Oh,” says Tony, who was expecting a completely different conversation. “Uh, thanks?”</p><p>“And here’s the thing,” continues Adam. “We know this isn’t your area of expertise, but-”</p><p>“-Derek has discovered a familial conflict within his schedule, and who are we to deny a man his family?” Justin spreads his hands wide. “We’d like to ask if you’re willing to take his spot as <em> Journal </em> representative at the Samwell Centennial Art Gala on the thirtieth.”</p><p><em> Definitely </em> not what Tony was expecting. He works his jaw a little bit; nothing comes out.</p><p>“You’re allowed to say no,” Adam adds. “We at the <em> Journal </em> try to foster a space where all people can feel comfortable with their choices, regardless of said choices.”</p><p>Justin says, “But also you’re our best reporter and maybe you’d like this break. It’s really more a party than anything. Black tie, go out and interview some rich folks, maybe even catch the head of the exhibit himself. Though I’ve heard he’s a reclusive fella.”</p><p>Adam frowns at him. “Who, Zimms? He’s not reclusive, man, he’s just awkward.”</p><p>They devolve into a conversation as Tony is still standing there, working out logistics. He sorts through a few dates and numbers and ideas before throwing them all away in a snap decision: “Sounds like a lot of fun, guys. I’ll do it.”</p><p>“Great!” they say at the same time, effectively cutting off whatever rapport they’d just created. Adam starts to scribble on a sheet of paper. “I’ll give you more details closer to, but here’s the gist of it. Time, place, dress code, you get it. Bring a date, if you want, just make sure they don’t get in the way of quality news-ing.”</p><p><em> News-ing </em>, Tony thinks but doesn’t say.</p><p>Adam hands him the sheet of paper. It has the details, but it also has a small stick-figure Tony with a pencil and a notepad and a bow tie and a very large smile. There’s also a few question marks hanging over stick-Tony’s head. Tony has never felt more connected to a drawing.</p><p>Derek glances at him as he returns to his desk. “You took it on? Good on you, bro, these events are wicked fun.”</p><p>“I’ll be out of my element,” confesses Tony, “but I think I’ll enjoy being the arts reporter for a night.”</p><p>“I’ll slide you some tips later this week on interviewing people who are not police,” says Derek, mostly joking, but Tony thinks he might appreciate those tips and says as much. Derek has a much more charming tendency about him; he’s smooth and agreeable and fits in well to these sorts of events, and Tony has no idea how he’s going to pull it off. But it’s done, he’s agreed, he might as well try his best – and if he gets to spend a night forgetting who he is, well, it’s all in good fun. </p><p>He’s excited to tell Connor the entire city’s gossip. Not that there will be any, but really, with rich people? There’s always something going on.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You what?” asks Whiskey, pasting a smile on his face, hoping it’s authentic, and ignoring the shifting of his stomach.</p><p>Tony’s grin is blinding, he’s basically <em> vibrating </em>, and in any other situation Whiskey would sort this picture under the mental folder labeled “cute as all hell” but there’s one very large problem. Tony is covering the Samwell Centennial. Tony is covering the very same art gala that Chad had brought up two weeks ago with an indulgent grin. Tony is going to be at the museum at the same time as the LAX, who are there to steal shit and fuck things up and possibly make things explode.</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p>And Whiskey can’t just ask him to <em> not </em>, because that’s an insult to Tony and everything he’s worked for in his career. This is big for him, this is far too exciting an opportunity to pass up, and Whiskey has to sit on his hands lest he lock Tony in a closet to protect him.</p><p>Tony, bless his heart, is oblivious to the war that is wreaking absolute havoc on Whiskey’s heart. He’s still talking, waving his hands in the way he does when he’s happy, speculating about the people and the information and the history and everything that he’ll learn. And when he cuts himself off, he’s staring at Whiskey, a little breathless, the edges of the smile still on his face.</p><p>“I’m happy for you,” Whiskey tells him honestly, because the fact that Tony <em> has </em> the opportunity is amazing. “That’ll be fun, won’t it?”</p><p>“Oh, absolutely!” Tony flops down on the couch and Whiskey follows him. “There’ll be so many people to talk to. Maybe they’ll have champagne. Or those – those fancy appetizers that the people carry around on trays, and they look kind of like fish but I don’t actually know if they are, what are they called? Maybe I’ll eat one. Or two. Or four.”</p><p>Tony leans into Whiskey’s side and Whiskey instinctively puts an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. He considers contacting Chad, asking off the job, if only so he can take one last one in the future, but the concept is laughable. If anything, that’ll make Chad more reckless and more insistent that Whiskey partake in the destruction. So no, not an option.</p><p>He turns on the TV instead, and watches belatedly as the characters onscreen do some sort of slapstick, thinking too much about absolutely nothing.</p><p>Tony grabs his hand and laces their fingers together. Whiskey holds on tight, because something feels like it’s changed, and he doesn’t want it to. Sitting in front of the TV, window open across the room, hearing the muted sounds of the city below – that’s all that needs to exist. </p><p>Not the gala, not Chad, not the LAX, not the guilt, and certainly not the desperation.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Ford answers the phone, and before she can finish her cordially-scripted greeting, the voice on the other end says <em> “I need you to listen to me very carefully: this conversation is not happening right now.” </em></p><p>“What,” says Ford, instead of finishing her introduction. The voice is as familiar as the eyes, nagging at her brain, and for a moment she picks through all her memories in order before she comes to a conclusion: “Connor?”</p><p><em> “Yeah,” </em> says the voice. <em> “It’s me. I need help.” </em></p><p>Suddenly, as though just the right puzzle piece has been slotted into place, a good chunk of the mysteries Ford has been grappling with are solved: who she saw in the car, where Tony found his information. Tony isn’t the gang member, but careful, kind Connor is.</p><p>But something must be wrong if he’s calling her for help. So against all her policework instincts, she says: “What’s wrong?”</p><p>
  <em> “First off, I’m not allowed to tell you this, which means that if anyone from the group catches on, I’m dead, Tony’s dead, and you’re going to have a fucking mess on your hands. So, like, try to keep it quiet.” </em>
</p><p>“Yeah,” she says, mouth dry. “Quiet as a mouse.” Caitlyn gives her a strange look and she waves it off, mouthing <em> I’ll tell you later. </em></p><p><em> “Cool,” </em> says Connor. <em> “The group is planning to hit the Centennial.” </em></p><p>Ford blinks, mouth open slightly. Then she scans the office, making sure everyone is paying attention to something else – Caitlyn, thank <em> God, </em>gets up and wanders toward the coffee machine – and grabs a pen. “The gala,” she confirms, even though she’s plenty confident about what he means. “You mean, the one at the museum.”</p><p>
  <em> “That’s the one. And I wouldn’t be telling you this but on Monday Tony got the invite to go for the Journal, apparently their usual arts guy will be out of town, and I need you to keep him close to you. They’re planning something that has the potential to get people hurt if they don’t run away. And I can almost guarantee Tony will go towards it instead.” </em>
</p><p>“Why can’t you just tell me about the job itself so we can prevent it, instead of all this shadiness?” Ford regrets the bite in her voice as soon as it happens, but the question still stands.</p><p>Connor makes a noise of frustration. <em> “I can’t because they’ll know it was me who fucked up their operation and that won’t fly well. Probably ends with me getting a shot to the head, and then God knows what else to get revenge, so. No. Won’t do that.” </em> He takes a deep breath and sighs, audible through the line. <em> “I want out, Ford. I’ve wanted out since I got in. And I’m willing to spill their darkest secrets, get them all put away for good, but I can only do that after, because right now they’re watching me closer than they’ve watched anyone in their entire life. But I promise that you’ll get the whole story eventually.” </em></p><p>He sounds sincere and almost desperate, with the way his voice cracked on the admission of wanting out, the emotion he’s stacked into every single syllable. Pair that with the look he gave her on Saturday – this is the picture of a man who is in the darkness and searching wildly for something to hold onto. She finds that she still respects this version of Connor. Authentic and a little flawed. </p><p>(He’s committed crimes, so technically he’s a lot flawed, but that’s unimportant.)</p><p><em> “Please,” </em> Connor says again, taking Ford’s silence as a rejection. <em> “I don’t care what you think of me now. Hell, you can arrest me, for all I care, just please, don’t let him get hurt. That’s all I ask.” </em> There’s a longer pause, and Ford just can’t find the words to fill it. <em> “I know you care about him too.” </em></p><p>It’s true, she realizes, more true than she’s been letting on. But she also cares about Connor; there’s real fear in his voice, now, and she wants to make it better, but what can she do?</p><p>“I’ll do what I can,” she promises into the phone, “I swear.”</p><p>Connor gives another, clearer sigh of relief. <em> “Thank you.” </em></p><p>“You will tell me about this later, though,” Ford orders. “I’ll give you a day to wrap up any loose ends and be with Tony, but then we’re talking. And I can’t promise anything that happens after that.”</p><p><em> “That’s all I ask,” </em> says Connor. <em> “Like I said. I don’t care anymore. This is more than just me, now.” </em></p><p>“Good.” She pauses for a moment, lets her shoulders drop into a more relaxed position, and says, “Are you doing all right?”</p><p>
  <em> “I’m staying quiet. You’re the only one who knows, right now. And I’m trying not to antagonize anyone. I only hope that’s enough.” </em>
</p><p>“That doesn’t really answer my question.”</p><p>Connor laughs a little bit through his nose. <em> “I’m fucking scared,” </em> he says, <em> “but I’m determined to make this work. One week left, right? That’s not too hard.” </em></p><p>Ford nods to herself. “Good. Keep it safe, all right? I don’t want to lose you either.”</p><p>She gets the feeling that Connor has stopped caring about his own well-being in favor of Tony’s. But adding her own thoughts for Connor – maybe that’s enough for now. A reminder that he’s not the only one scared, and a reminder that there is someone on his side.</p><p>
  <em> “Thanks. I should go now.” </em>
</p><p>He hangs up immediately after Ford makes a noise of agreement, and Ford is left staring at the phone.</p><p>Caitlyn slides back into her chair with a fresh mug. “What’s up?”</p><p>“I need to talk to the Captain,” says Ford. “It’s urgent.”</p><p> </p><p>The thing about Captain Duan is that she’s somewhat approachable, generally a friendly woman, but every single person in the office has seen her threaten a variety of <em> actually scary </em> criminals into cooperation, so. Armed with the knowledge that she may have broken a few laws and/or rules of operation, Ford knocks on her office door and hopes for good things.</p><p>Duan lets her in with a raised eyebrow and shuts the door behind her. “Is something wrong?”</p><p>“Well,” says Ford, “kind of,” and she sits at the visitors’ seat across from the Captain and tells her everything.</p><p>And Duan listens, hands folded together, not speaking until the end. </p><p>“Well,” she declares, after Ford has finished, “I think we can work with this.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In the week leading up to the gala, Tony cannot sit still. He offers to cook some things (not that he’s great at it, but he’s trying, and it looks like Connor appreciates it) and spends far more time writing than he should (most of it is scrapable, kind of trash writing, but it’s something) and also cleans the apartment (because he can).</p><p>He drags Connor along on his Quest To Find A Suit. It’s a good idea, too, because Connor happens to know a tailor, so they make a day of it and go for lunch afterwards at a café near the museum. He steals a forkful of Connor’s pecan pie and Connor kicks him gently in the shin. He makes friends with the owner of the bakery, who’s the husband of the gallery curator, who will most definitely be at the gala. It’s less complicated than it sounds.</p><p>Connor takes his hand as they walk back to the tailor, and in that single moment Tony feels happier than he ever has in his entire life.</p><p> </p><p>Gala Night rolls around, and Tony feels spiffy in his new suit, armed with his tape recorder, three pens, and two notebooks just in case. Connor bids him goodbye with a particularly heated kiss, followed by a hug that lasts longer than they usually do, and his eyes are unusually soft as Tony leaves the apartment.</p><p>But it’s only a strange thing for the length of time it takes to get to the museum and see Ford waiting near the entrance, looking positively <em> radiant </em> as she laughs with a pair of men. She lights up as Tony gets near. “Tony! You’re here!”</p><p>“I am!” says Tony, equally enthusiastic about the fact that he’s here. “Miss Ford, you look amazing.”</p><p>Ford grins and bows a little bit. She’s wearing a calf-length, deep purple cocktail dress and matching heels, and there’s a sheer, lighter purple scarf in her hair. All of it coordinates beautifully. “Thanks! This is pretty new, I’ll be honest, I think I’ve worn heels twice before tonight.”</p><p>Tony stretches his arms out. “I got this a few days ago. Look at us, pretending to be rich.”</p><p>One of the men next to Ford gives her a dig on the arm and points at the door. “Wicks and I’ll be inside, yeah? Let us know if you need anything.”</p><p>“As long as I don’t have to rip you two apart on the dance floor,” ribs Ford right back. “Have a good night, Ollie.”</p><p>They exit with matching two-fingered salutes. Tony steps up to her, offers his elbow. “Shall we?”</p><p>“We shall,” says Ford, and together they go.</p><p>They’ve both been to the museum before, but on a night like this it feels like the whole place has transformed. There are lights strung around the pillars and gold-velvet stanchions, couples from the highest part of town arm-in-arm looking stunning, an air of elegance and delight.</p><p>They file into the event gallery and Ford gasps. “Oh my goodness, the art.” </p><p>Lining the walls is a series of massive paintings and displays featuring historical artifacts, old war relics and journals and slices of life that build a picture of Samwell from the beginning and before. Over the general chatter of attendees is soft classical music.</p><p>They nearly stop in the middle of the doorway. Someone behind them clears their throats, and Tony drags Ford off to the side to let them through. “Holy moly,” he agrees.</p><p>The event begins with a formal speech by the mayor, a few councillors, and then one by the exhibit head, who stands at the microphone and looks like he’d rather be anywhere but there. The speech is 80% scripted greetings and Basic Samwell History and 20% unscripted yet passionate tangents about unrelated historical events. Tony is very excited to interview him.</p><p>Then they bring out the champagne and the hors d’oeuvres, and Tony sees a plate of <em> the things that look kind of like fish </em> and makes a beeline for them, forgetting that Ford is still clutching tight to his inner arm.</p><p>Do they really belong here? No, not particularly. But it’s almost more fun that way.</p><p>Exhibit Head Jack Zimmermann is currently surrounded by people, so Tony elects to talk to him later in the night – but he does catch Bitty’s eye from across the room and waves, hoping that Bitty remembers him, and they share a moment of polite recognition (in the form of a slightly-too-enthusiastic wave). So he lets Ford direct them around the room for a little bit, mingling only briefly with some people, stopping to talk to others.</p><p>Eventually Ford brings him to a tall redhead in a suit with an extra nametag labeled <b>HEAD SECURITY</b>. “Hi,” she says, holding out a hand, “I’m Denice, I’m with the police representation here tonight. We spoke on the phone, I think?” </p><p>The man is already nodding. “We sure did. Nice to meet you formally. You can call me Dex if you’d like.” He turns to Tony. “You’ve got the press pass but you’re not Derek.”</p><p>“No sir,” says Tony, sticking his hand out too. “My name’s Tony. Are you Will?”</p><p>“Yeah, suppose so. Why?”</p><p>Tony blinks a few times, and then says, “I was given a message to relay. Derek is, uh, ‘sorry he couldn’t be here to see your face in person’, but he hopes that you can ‘still function without his continual and delightful presence’ and, uh, something about taking it easy. None of it sounded particularly like flirting but I’m not that great at figuring out that part.”</p><p>Dex crushes his eyes closed and rubs his forehead briefly. “Thanks, Tony. I appreciate it.”</p><p>“So you know each other?” Tony asks, because despite all the art and highfalutin people, this is <em> interesting. </em></p><p>“Yeah, we’re friends, if you take that term a little differently than your normal buddy-buddy coffee-date friendship. Used to be roommates in college. Committed to driving each other insane, but in a nonaggressive way, you know, as friends are supposed to be.”</p><p>Tony nods knowingly, even though it doesn’t quite make sense. Ford interjects smoothly: “Tony, can I talk to Dex for a little bit? Work purposes, you know – you’re not the only one on the job tonight.”</p><p>“Of course!” Tony scans the room, picks out his next target, and leaves Ford with a quick upper-arm squeeze. He’s just spotted someone from the museum, a friendly-looking man with a nametag who may be an interpreter. Even if this isn’t based on the centennial itself, it’ll be good to get some information on the gallery.</p><p>The man’s name is Chris, he’s very happy to be here and it’s apparent, and Tony spends the next five minutes making friendly conversation that has absolutely nothing to do with the museum or the party. Then he gets his history questions out of the way (“I’m usually working down in the kids’ gallery, to be honest,” Chris says, “but I volunteered for this and Jack likes me so here I am”) and prowls off to find someone else to talk to.</p><p>Ford joins him again as he fits himself onto the (significantly decreased) bubble of people around Zimmermann. There’s an air of professionality around her, like she’s just been giving orders or going over Important, Possibly Dangerous Situations, but she smiles at Tony and he smiles back and all that disappears again.</p><p>Bitty sidles over to them. “Good evening, folks! I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.”</p><p>“We are!” says Ford. “Detective Ford. You’re attached to Zimmermann, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Eric Bittle, at your service,” says Bitty, “but please call me Bitty. Tony, let me just say – I do hope you and your beau come back to the café every once in a while. It’s always lovely to have someone as enthusiastic about my baking as you are.”</p><p>“My beau,” says Tony dreamily. He misses the way Bitty and Ford smirk at each other. “Yeah, absolutely, we loved the food. We’ll have to take more dates there. Ford, we’ll have to take you, too!”</p><p>“Looking forward to it,” Ford grins. The three of them talk Samwell for a little bit; what it was like to grow up here, all its quirks and eccentricities, connections to history, the like. After a while, Jack Zimmermann himself approaches, slotting himself next to Bitty with an arm around his waist. “Hello,” he says, quietly.</p><p>Bitty twists in his arm to give Jack a kiss on the jaw. “The man of the hour,” he says. “I believe you’re due for an interview.”</p><p>Jack gets a faint look of panic on his face. “Don’t worry,” Tony says quickly, “I’m not particularly interested in your personal life.”</p><p>“That’s good, then,” says Jack, relaxing slightly. “I’m pretty good at the other stuff.”</p><p>“Oh, I bet!” Tony says, and then they’re off in a deep and compelling conversation about Samwell history, the gallery itself, why all this is important to Jack. It’s the most animated that Jack’s been all night.</p><p> </p><p>Ford snags a pair of champagne flutes for herself and Bitty. “You know,” Bitty says, “I’m not usually one for these functions, but I’m glad this one is turning out well.”</p><p>“Me too,” says Ford, and then she scans the room warily. “You know, for now.”</p><p>Bitty’s eyes narrow. “Do you know something, Miss Ford?”</p><p>Ford tilts her head, considering. “It’s a possibility. Stick close to your husband, Eric, though I don’t think I need to tell you that.”</p><p>“No, I suppose not,” hums Bitty over his champagne. They take a sip in unison and keep eyes on their respective dates. Jack laughs, bright and loud, and Bitty’s face morphs into something of a soft mess. “Lord, that boy and his history. He could talk about it for hours, I swear.”</p><p>“Tony’s great at hitting the right point of conversation,” Ford says proudly. “I bet your husband will have a delightfully charming presence in the article that’ll come from this.”</p><p>Bitty raises a happy eyebrow. “Delightfully charming. Now that’s my Jack, right there.”</p><p>Someone else interrupts Tony and Jack’s exchange, a photographer, maybe, so Ford and Bitty bid their own goodbyes. Tony turns off his tape recorder and returns to Ford’s side, wiggling his shoulders, content. “That was fun. Who’s next?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Ford regards the room once again, takes in the groups of people who are having lush evenings, the clump of couples in the middle dancing, and places her champagne on the nearest table. “Want to dance?”</p><p>“I should be asking you that,” says Tony with a goofy smile. He takes her hand and presses his lips to her knuckles. “May I have a dance, Miss Ford?”</p><p>Ford giggles. “You may.”</p><p>They move towards the center of the room with as much grace as they can muster. Tony isn’t a spectacular dancer by any means, but Ford leads him and they make do, swaying with only the slightest bit of foot-clashing and confusion. As the leader, Ford gets to spin Tony a couple times – something that makes them both laugh, bright and loud, sometimes drawing attention, but it doesn’t matter. They end up in a slow waltz position, chest to chest.</p><p>“I’m having fun,” says Tony softly, with a weight to his words that has been absent from the past few admissions of joy. “Really. I feel like the past few days have been something out of a dream.”</p><p>Ford gives a small “hm?” of the <em> please, elaborate </em> kind. “I mean,” Tony continues, “everything’s just been so – so good. Like when Connor and I went for lunch at Bitty’s place. He’s told me he loves me more in the past twenty-four hours than he did all of last month. And that Thursday Night Dinner, when you came over – it felt so much like <em> that’s </em> what life is supposed to be, you know?”</p><p>A wave of warmth and a wave of cold settle upon Ford simultaneously. All of this is a confession of love, she thinks, a revelation that maybe after years of work and fighting to get to a good place in life, she’s found somewhere to rest, a place (rather, people) to fall into. But there’s sadness that comes with that, knowing what she knows: Connor has been compensating for what he believes to come next, whether that is prison or something worse.</p><p>And she realizes that an underlying part of her conversation with Connor had confirmed this: no matter what happens next, she will keep an eye on Tony, she will not leave him alone with whatever demons he may have, and this will last far beyond tonight.</p><p>Tony sighs again, a little happy sound. “I like my life,” he says. “I like where I’m at right now. I think I’m also a little worried that this daydream thing is going to end.”</p><p>“It doesn’t have to,” says Ford, placating and convincing herself at the same time.</p><p>And that’s when everything explodes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. the aftermath.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The shock from the explosion throws Ford off her feet. For a moment, all she knows is the feeling of the ground on her thighs and the general sound of panic from the room, and then the commotion clears and she looks around and –</p><p>Dear God, half the wall is gone.</p><p>She shakes her head sharply to reorient herself and slips her hand underneath her dress, pulling at the holstered gun she’s been hiding. All around, people are running and yelling and running more – she spots Ollie and Wicks helping people to the exit, Chris speeding around the room getting people to their feet (shit, is that blood along his hairline?) and even Bitty beneath a table, protected almost completely by Jack’s shoulders; they’re yelling to each other because their hearing is shot. And this is what Connor must have meant by <em> something that could get people hurt </em> , whatever this is, whatever distraction this is causing, because this is a <em> mess. </em></p><p>Ford reaches out for Tony, who went down next to her, she <em> swears </em>, except he’s not there and she’s grasping at empty space.</p><p>Oh no. <em> Oh no. </em></p><p>She stands, slips off her impractical heels and shoves them to the nearest still-standing wall (because they were expensive, thank you very much), and scans the room. By the crumbled wall, Dex is giving orders to a group of uniformed securitymen. She beelines over.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” Dex is saying, “I don’t care if you think this is below your pay grade, just go tell the fucking old rich people that they’ll be okay. Half of our problem is paranoia, so I <em> assure </em> you that cutting off the fucking <em> feedback loop of panic </em> is still considered security. <em> Go.” </em> He runs a hand through his hair and spots Ford. “Detective! Do you happen to know what just happened?”</p><p>“As a matter of fact, yes,” she says. “This is connected to the bank robberies, and it may not seem like it but it is. Trust me. Do you know what they might be looking for?”</p><p>Dex nods solemnly. “There’s a guest exhibit in hall A, some old and expensive thing called the Victor’s Cup. Nothing else here is remotely as special. I had extra security on it for the night.” His face drains of colour. “Oh, shit. The guards-”</p><p>“Go check on them,” says Ford. “But be safe. I have something else to attend to, but there should be backup already on its way. Keep a lookout for a woman named Farmer, she’ll be leading the charge.”</p><p>“Gotcha.” Dex nods and Ford nods back, and then he jogs away and she thinks about her next move.</p><p>Tony is most likely looking for the source of the confusion. Because this is his job, chasing crime and discovering the intricacies of humanity (or, recently, the gang itself), and she’d be lying if she thought he wasn’t in some way chasing a high. Even if this is just to get more information for what he’d inevitably be writing on. There’s no way he’s outside with the rest of the party. Absolutely no way.</p><p>So she pushes into the main atrium, taken aback for a moment at the mass of people yet to go outside, still somehow in a mad rush. Despite all her deep breaths, the mad-panic atmosphere is bringing her heart rate up, the rubble in the event room just a signifier of their reality. Tonight has stopped being a night of revelry and life.</p><p>If she fails, tonight could be just the opposite.</p><p>She catches sight of an arrow pointing towards Hall A and starts to muscle her way through the crowd, fighting against the flow to get further into the museum. Her height lends no advantage and at least four people step on her toes. And through it all, her blood is pulsing to a beat of muted, shoved-down terror: this is what she’s chosen for her life, yes, but with it has come a decision to love one man so much that she’s pushing towards peril for him. For an ambitious reporter with an insatiable curiosity and a desire for action, for a life to live – and this <em> is </em> that life, no matter what.</p><p>And then she thinks of Connor, and his subtle humor and willingness to sacrifice everything for his love, and she rescinds her earlier statement: it’s a decision to love two.</p><p>They’re going to talk about this, all three of them, once this night is over and done with.</p><p>(Ensuring, of course, that they all emerge unscathed.)</p><p>Entering Hall A at the front doors seems like a bad idea, so Ford traces along the outer wall, looking for a back entrance. The hall is larger than she originally thought, though; she rounds a few corners without finding a door and stops short when she hears voices. </p><p>“Dude, fuck the guards,” whispers one, “we’ve already come this far. Let ‘em die, if need be.”</p><p>Ford has another flash of worry for Dex and his team, but it is quelled by the fact that they’re literally trained security and <em> will be fine, Ford, stop thinking about it. </em></p><p>And then it all goes cold again, because a much stronger and cockier voice goes, “Ah, what do we have here?”</p><p>“Found ‘im in the halls, boss,” says another voice, and there’s a thump and a grunt and the voice that comes after that makes Ford’s heart break.</p><p>“Hey, fellas,” says Tony. “Would you believe me if I said I just took a wrong turn?”</p><p>“Asshole’s got a pen and paper,” Voice Two says. “’E’s probably tryin’ to fuck us up.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Voice One purrs. The tone of it is absolutely sickening. A shiver runs down Ford’s spine as she inches closer to the next corner, crouching to peek around it.</p><p>Sure enough. There’s four of them, each in masks, though the one she’s categorized simultaneously as Boss and Voice One has a shock of blonde hair peeking out the top of his mask. He’s also the one currently waving around a gun like it means nothing to him.</p><p>That makes her job significantly harder.</p><p>Then, of course, there’s Tony, arms held tight by two of the masked men, wide-eyed and grinning nervously. He’s talking about something, probably the job, probably the cat if Ford had to really stretch – and it’s not going well.</p><p>“Because, you know, there’s a lot more to history than just the artifacts,” Tony is saying, and <em> Christ, is he trying to talk them out of their robbery? </em> “Without the connection to humanity and the story behind it, everything we consider historical is rendered meaningless. It’s impossible to recognize the craft of something without acknowledging the people behind it, right? So when you remove something like the Cup from its context, suddenly it’s not as expensive anymore.”</p><p>The Boss sounds equal parts exasperated and amused when he says, “For fuck’s sake, someone gag this guy.”</p><p>“Now, hold on, I’m sure there’s more to talk about – <em> shit!” </em> Guy On The Right elbows Tony hard in the gut and he folds in half, wheezing. The Boss turns back to the back entrance to Hall A (of course it’s there, of course there’s no easy way to do her job, what the <em> fuck else </em> was supposed to happen) and hums.</p><p>“It’s a coincidence that you’re here, sure,” he says, talking directly to Tony now, “but it might be good for us.” He slips the door open a crack, listens for an alarm, and when there is none he peeks inside. “See, we’ve run into a bit of a setback, and I think you’re just the thing that’ll get us out of here alive.”</p><p><em> Hostage, </em> Ford’s mind supplies, <em> he means hostage. </em></p><p>And apparently Tony draws the same conclusion, because he starts wiggling, coughing out curses with his breath still recovering. One of the men holding his arms curses too, slips, and for a moment Tony is facing the corner Ford is still crouched behind, staring desperately into an otherwise empty hallway, drawing breath for one last scream – and then the gun is back in the picture.</p><p>“Please don’t call for help,” says the Boss mildly, aim locked steadily on the side of Tony’s head. “That would just be a shame, now, wouldn’t it.”</p><p>Ford tries to tear herself away, to move a little further down to safety and reevaluate, but she can’t – not with Tony’s life so close and inexplicably small compared to a bullet.</p><p>Tony’s wild gaze locks on her for just a second, no longer, and in that second she can feel every human emotion, beginning with fear and ending with an acceptance that immediately precedes the rending of her heart in half.</p><p>She slips back behind the corner again just in case the gang decides to follow suit and look, and she hates how much it feels like betrayal.</p><p>“Detective?” whispers someone behind her. She panics, swirls, and points her gun in perfect form at someone dressed in black, gloves and mask, hands in the air. But there’s the eyes again, and though they’re not doused in car headlights anymore, they are still a brilliant shade of gold.</p><p>“Connor,” Ford whispers back. “I didn’t think you’d be-”</p><p>“Here? Participating?” Connor guesses. “Yeah. I know. Long story.” He tugs at the chin of his mask until it’s resting on his forehead, face in full view. “Where’s Tony?”</p><p>“Boys,” says the Boss around the corner, “this’ll be a lot easier with the hostage, just get your shit together and stick to what plan we’ve got left. Trust me.”</p><p>Connor gives Ford a flat stare that so clearly means, <em> you did not. </em></p><p>“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.</p><p>Apparently that’s all the confirmation he needs, because the flat stare falls into something twisted and wrenched in grief and guilt all at once. He takes in a shaky breath, runs a hand over his face, tries again. <em> “Fuck,” </em>he says, quiet but emphatic.</p><p>If he looks like it’s the end of the world, then Ford feels the same.</p><p>She opens her mouth to apologize further, or maybe explain herself, or something, but Connor holds up a placating hand. “Not your fault,” he says. “Honestly, I should have expected this. Coming to you was a last-ditch resort. But I don’t regret it, because I know you’re on his side.”</p><p>He doesn’t say <em> our side </em>, and Ford wants to correct him. “There’s a plan,” she says instead. “I may have slightly broken our rule and talked to my captain. But we figured something out and I promise there’s more than just me who’s ready to help.”</p><p>“Good,” says Connor. It comes out short and bitter and angry. “I joined them because I was desperate. But all they do is cause pain. If I’m done today, I’m taking them down with me.”</p><p><em> If I’m done being Connor, if I’m treated like one of them, if everything that made me Connor dies today, </em>is what he means, what Ford hears.</p><p>“We’re in, boys,” announces the Boss. “Get in, get out, shoot only if necessary. We’re out in sixty.”</p><p>Connor sighs, reaches up and replaces his mask with a shaking hand. “That’s my cue.” Then he steps forward, holds his hand out for Ford to shake. “I’m glad it’s you,” he says.</p><p>Ford finds herself saying, “I’d have done it even if you never asked,” and she finds that it’s true.</p><p>His eyes find hers, crinkled slightly. “Exactly.”</p><p> </p><p>What Whiskey sees when he rounds the corner is this: two of the gang carrying the Cup sideways on their shoulders, like a ladder, Chad (with a gun, where the fuck did that come from) and the other guy (possibly Josh, again) with their focus on Tony.</p><p>He doesn’t look hurt, which is good, but he’s wheezing, which is less good.</p><p>Chad perks up when he sees Whiskey. “Everything good down in the entrance?”</p><p>Whiskey nods. If he keeps the talking to a minimum, maybe even nonexistent, then Tony won’t make the connection and everything will be easier and maybe they can all go home at the end of the day.</p><p>Chad doesn’t seem to notice. “Grand. Let’s move out.”</p><p>So they make their way quietly (or, as quietly as possible, with the grumbling of the two carrying the Cup) to the back exit, where they’ve got a car waiting. Theoretically, this should be the easiest part: leave the building. Get in the car. Go.</p><p>And they’ve almost made it, too. Except they’re ten paces from the door when the Cup slips out of the front man’s hands and crashes, clipping Whiskey’s shoulder on the way down, and he lets out an involuntary pain-curse followed by a “watch what you’re doing, guys, <em> fuck” </em>, and Tony’s eyes go wide and Whiskey knows he’s made a mistake.</p><p>Maybe if he screws his eyes shut and breathes this’ll all go away.</p><p>But it doesn’t. Tony is still staring at him with a shocked expression, and when he finally recognizes the eyes he’s seeing the whisper seems almost automatic. “Connor?”</p><p>Chad stops moving, so everyone stops moving.</p><p>“What,” Tony is saying, trying to puzzle this out for himself, “what. What is going on.”</p><p>Chad turns to Whiskey with a calculating frown. “Whiskey, you know this guy?”</p><p>Because Tony <em> can’t shut his mouth to save his life </em>, he keeps whispering, spouting to himself pieces of evidence that he should have seen: “You never got mugged, did you? Have I been living with –”</p><p>Whiskey slaps a hand over Tony’s mouth but it’s too late. Chad’s eyes bug a little bit. <em> “This </em> is the twink,” he says. There’s a little bit of awe and a gross amount of glee in his voice. “Oh, man, we’ve hit the jackpot.”</p><p>Tony wrenches his head away from Whiskey’s hand and says, “Excuse you I am not a twink.”</p><p>“Listen,” says Whiskey slowly. Tony still looks caught off-guard, like he’s not expecting this criminal to speak with the voice of his boyfriend. “Nothing has to change. We leave with the Cup and leave him behind and everything stays the way it should.”</p><p>“Hm,” Chad says. “No.”</p><p>“For <em> fuck’s sake, </em> boss, you’ve already got what you need. Just – just keep it going. Forget he was here. <em> Fuck.” </em>He’s aware that he’s begging. It doesn’t matter anymore.</p><p>“Ah, but see,” says Chad, waggling a finger, “that means you’re going to go home and spill to your-” he motions at the press pass still attached to Tony’s breast pocket- <em> “newsboy </em> and all of us are dust. So no. We’re not just going to leave him here.”</p><p>“I don’t have to report anything,” Tony says quickly. “Not a peep.”</p><p>Chad keeps talking over him like he doesn’t exist. “So here’s what we’re going to do instead. Five of us are gonna leave. Me, you, you, you –” he points at each individual gang member in turn, purposefully jumping over Whiskey – “and you, little reporter. Which leaves you,” he points now at Whiskey, “to be the face of the LAX for when the cops show up.”</p><p>“You want me to get arrested,” says Whiskey flatly.</p><p>“Would you rather I shoot him?”</p><p>The gun is back in the picture, back in Tony’s direction, and something cold and scared jolts through Whiskey like a lightning bolt. “No!” he says, far too quickly. “Fucking hell, boss, just. This is all bullshit.”</p><p>“I agree,” says Tony, “that’s not going to work. No thanks, no thanks all around.”</p><p>“Shut <em> up,” </em>says Chad. “Your call, Whiskey. What’s it going to be.”</p><p>Tony’s face swings back toward Whiskey. His face is wide open, because in all the years they’ve known each other Whiskey has never once seen Tony shuttered, and what he sees is a blindside: it’s a small smile, something reserved for the two of them in the privacy of the apartment, one that means simple love. No bells or whistles or large proclamations, just - love.</p><p>And Whiskey can’t figure out what it’s supposed to mean.</p><p>Maybe it’s a weird send-off to prison, maybe it’s a dumbass self-sacrificial move, maybe it’s something else entirely. But it’s not the betrayal and fear he expected to see, and that makes this worse.</p><p>And then he hears, just barely a rush of running footsteps, and he knows what comes next.</p><p>“Yeah, okay,” Whiskey admits quietly, “I’ll take the fall.”</p><p>He raises his hands in the air just as the calvary reaches them.</p><p> </p><p>Chad is immediately snarling. “You motherfucker, you were stalling.”</p><p>Seeing as there’s not really much that can make this worse, Connor raises his chin and says, “Glad it took you this long to catch on.”</p><p>“Fuckin’ snitch,” says the guy who dropped the Cup. “Should’ve known you’d turn on us from the get-go.”</p><p>And then Ford shouts, <em> “Police, drop your weapons,” </em> and she’s aiming at Chad and Chad’s aiming at Tony and everything is kind of a mess.</p><p>She’s standing at the front of the group of police, still barefoot and looking for all the world like she’s about to kill someone, angry and determined and made of steel all at once. There are two uniformed officers behind her and one other man in a suit, and together they block the way back into the museum. But they don’t move, not yet, because Ford’s hand is up in the <em> don’t move yet </em> position and she’s staring right at Tony. “You all right?”</p><p>“Grand,” says Tony, kind of shaky. Whiskey is proud of him.</p><p>Not to be forgotten for even a moment, Chad says, “Send your men away or I shoot him.”</p><p>“Drop your weapon or I shoot you,” replies Ford smoothly.</p><p>They stand, staring at each other, as the tension slowly rises. At least two of the LAX are inching towards the back door, considering abandoning the job completely. All the while, his heart is pounding in his throat, has been since he’d caught Ford alone at the corner. Every single one of his senses is on high alert for one person and one person only.</p><p>“Boss,” he says quietly. “The plan. Let me take the fall.”</p><p>“Like <em> hell-” </em> Tony starts, but Chad digs the gun into the spot above his ear and he stops. Chad just laughs, stereotypically villainous.</p><p>“I don’t think so, <em> Connor,” </em> he says. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Well, no matter. How about this: I shoot loverboy here-” he taps the gun against Tony’s skull and Tony flinches- “and then I get the rest of you. One,” he points the gun at Ford, “by one,” then at the people behind her, “by one.”</p><p>He turns the gun on Whiskey.</p><p>Tony rockets himself to his feet, catching Chad in the chin with the back of his head, and elbows him hard in the sternum. The gun clatters to the floor and out of reach.</p><p>Ford makes a motion, and the boys behind her rush in, each taking one of the gang members. Whiskey himself is pulled backwards jarringly by the one in the suit, and he complies as best he can, still watching with muted horror as Tony starts to punch Chad in the face, again and again and again. <em> “You – motherfucker – manipulative piece of shit,” </em>he’s grunting.</p><p>“Tony!” yells Ford from where she’s cuffing the man nearest the door. “Stand down!”</p><p>Chad’s face is a mess, covered in blood and bruises. Tony sits back, reeling for a second, and then –</p><p>Whiskey sees a glint of metal and Chad is grinning, all bloody teeth and no remorse, and –</p><p>“Tony,” he whispers, “Tango, <em> no.” </em></p><p>Chad grunts. Then so does Tony, stilling, with massive eyes and an expression of dizzy shock and the handle of something sharp sticking out of his stomach.</p><p>Something raw tears itself out of Whiskey’s throat. He’s on his knees, hands cuffed behind him, because apparently he’s been legally arrested and he hasn’t heard a thing, so focused on what’s just transpired. Ford has already jumped forward, yelling for a medical team and calling out directions left and right like the true leader she is, but still Whiskey hears nothing.</p><p>Tony looks at him, made in that moment of soft brown eyes and liquid light. Smiles that soft, lovely smile again.</p><p>But unlike the last time, Whiskey knows exactly what this one means. That doesn’t make it hurt any less.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Three things:</p><ol>
<li>    Everything <em>hurts.</em>
</li>
<li>    He has so many questions.</li>
<li>    He doesn’t get to ask any of them, because Connor is looking at him like the world has just collapsed and he wants to say something to reassure him but then everything goes sort of white.</li>
</ol><p>It stays like that for a long time. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The first night is the worst. Ford doesn’t go home.</p><p>The medical team had already been called following the explosion, so getting Tony help was quick and uncomplicated. But Ford had to stay behind; organize arrests, debrief with every single officer (including but not limited to her constables, Farmer, and Dex and his team), ensure the area was secure, check on people. She felt quite a bit like she floated through it all.</p><p>Flashes of memory present themselves now, at 6am, when Ford rouses from her arm-pillow, back aching from being bent over her desk. Caitlyn and Chris, tangled together in the lights of the ambulance as he gets checked out. Jack and Bitty, nodding to her as they pass, hand in hand. Dex with a bruise on his jaw, hiding the track of relieved tears after a full headcount of his guards, all alive.</p><p>All of these people, and all the people they care about, bunched together, breathing out the last of what had become a horrible night.</p><p>She’d gotten back to the station late, near midnight, checked in her gun and changed into spare clothes and grabbed a cup of coffee. There was a preliminary report to write, logistics to go over, a list to make of things to follow up on. Her feet ached something fierce.</p><p>Connor had been separated from the rest of the gang in the cells; the leader had been sent to the hospital for a broken nose, but the remainder of the men still seemed to harbor varying levels of disgust for Connor. He’d spoken only a few words, a quick “I understand” when told what was going on, a heavy breath and nothing more.</p><p>Ford wonders if he’d gotten any sleep, either. Probably not.</p><p>She puts her glasses back on and gets up to refill her coffee. The first bits of dawn are peeking in through the open blinds. Somewhere outside, there are birds, flitting between telephone wires and old building signs, singing away their blues. She wonders – not for the first time – what it would be like, to be a bird, to have less responsibility, to just exist.</p><p>Running on leftover fumes and about forty-five minutes of sleep, Ford manages to pour coffee into her mug but also down her right leg, hissing when the heat soaks up to her skin. She grabs a towel, pats it down with little success, and accepts her fate.</p><p>“Shit, man,” says a voice next to her: it’s Captain Duan, also with dark smudges under her eyes, holding out her hand for the coffee. “I’ve done that a lot, don’t worry about it. At least you’ll smell like coffee.”</p><p>“Captain,” says Ford, because even in her most sleep-deprived state she can be cordial. “Good morning.”</p><p>Duan lifts her mug in a sort of <em> cheers </em>motion. “It sure is morning. Listen, I know you’re tired of debriefs right now, but I’ve got some things that might help you. Might help all of us.”</p><p>“I’m all ears.” Ford follows Duan back to her office and sits down heavily into the guest-chair. “What’s up?”</p><p>“First of all,” Duan says, “the hospital says that Tangredi has made it through the first night, and that things are looking up.”</p><p>Ford has to set down her coffee before she drops it. All at once, every muscle in her body seems to have relaxed, the nervous tension that has been running through her bones for <em> hours </em> exploding out in a harsh sigh. “Thank God,” she says.</p><p>“My thoughts exactly. Now, you can be the one to tell the crying man in my holding cell, but before you go I think we need a game plan for what comes next. I’m talking law, I’m talking court, I’m talking the legal ramifications of every single thing that happened last night. Good and bad.” Duan runs a hand over her face. “I’ll need all your evidence from the bank hits, and you might need to phone some of your old witnesses, but I think we can make it work.”</p><p>They can make it work. Ford has every bit of confidence in her force, in the Samwell community. But there’s still one thing nagging at her, and maybe it’s the tiredness that gives her the courage to ask: “Is there anything we can do for Connor?”</p><p>Duan gives her a knowing look. “Do you have utmost confidence that he’s different from the others?”</p><p>“With all my heart,” Ford answers.</p><p>“Then maybe. I’ll get someone good on his case, maybe Knight, and we can chalk up how much of his participation was under threat. If he’s lucky, if we’re all lucky, he’ll be back to normal life soon.”</p><p>“Good,” says Ford. She thinks about the Connor she met at Thursday Night Dinner, about the Connor on the phone, scared for someone else’s life, about the man sitting across the station. “I- do we have to work on the case now?”</p><p>Duan shakes her head, smiling. “Go tell him. And get some rest, okay? You’ve earned a break.”</p><p> </p><p>Connor is still staring at his hands. He barely looks up as Ford lets herself into the cell, shutting the door behind her.</p><p>“Hey,” she says quietly. She sits beside him, leaving a few inches of space between their legs, and examines her own hands. Last week she had changed the colour of her nails to a pastel red. In the mess of last night, they’ve chipped slightly, and there’s a crack on her thumb.</p><p>Connor twists his hands together. “Did you go home?” His voice rasps from lack of use.</p><p>Ford shakes her head. “Caught a few minutes at my desk. I think I’m running off an hour and three cups of coffee.”</p><p>“You should go home. Get some rest.”</p><p>“The hospital says Tony is going to be okay,” she says, ignoring his statement completely. The way Connor had spoken, with such an absolute lack of emotion, gave a clue to how he’d spent his night – drowning in guilt in the unknown, unable to sleep. It was only cruel to stretch it out. “He pulled through last night, and now he’s on the up.”</p><p>Connor’s head snaps to the side, watching every movement of Ford’s expression with sharp eyes. “Really?"</p><p>"Really," she says. Then she lets herself laugh, allowing one hysteria-tinged relief giggle out. Connor laughs too, a short shot of laughter that catches them both by surprise, and then they’re laughing at that, and, oops, one of them must have started crying first but neither of them know who it was.</p><p>Connor wipes at his cheek with the heel of his hand and then rocks forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “God. I spent the night praying, you know? And somehow I got convinced that he wouldn’t make it, because I’ve done some stupid things and that’s absolutely how karma would be.”</p><p>Ford hovers a hand over his, a silent request for permission, and he reaches up to grab it. “I don’t want to tell you what to believe,” she says, “but Tony getting hurt is not your fault, it’s not penance for anything, and – if you’ll allow me – I personally believe that you’re quite the upstanding citizen.”</p><p>“You’re telling me that in a holding cell,” says Connor dryly.</p><p>She squeezes his hand. “Well, you know, there could be worse places.”</p><p>They’re quiet for a moment, and then she says, “I’m serious, though. You have something you stand for. You’d do anything for the people you love. And, okay, that’s not upstanding on its own, but I think you’ve got something that makes you less of a criminal and more just… someone who’s made mistakes but is trying to own up to them. And you’re becoming better because of it.”</p><p>“I don’t know,” says Connor. “Would Chad still have tried to kill Tony if he didn’t know about our connection? If I wasn’t there to fuck it all up in the first place?”</p><p>“We’ll never know. But we don’t have to.”</p><p>Ford thinks about the conversation she shared with Bitty, before the champagne. He had told her about his parents, how he’d kept his feet on the ground and dared to exist with Jack before they were ready, how it shaped him.</p><p><em> “You’d really do anything for him,” </em>Ford had said.</p><p>And Bitty had looked at her, really looked, like he was imparting some sort of arcane wisdom upon her, and said, <em> “That’s what love is.” </em></p><p>Connor nods like he needs some convincing, but it’s a nod nonetheless. “Thank you.”</p><p>He’s thanking her for more than just the reassurance, and it’s for more than that when she says, “Anytime.”</p><p> </p><p>“By the way, the captain’s pulling some strings so we can find you a fantastic lawyer. If I’m right – and I usually am – you’ll probably end up with Shitty.”</p><p>“You’re giving me a shitty lawyer?”</p><p>“No, oh my God, no, that’s his name. Or, that’s what the captain calls him. I think they’ve got some history.” </p><p>“Hm. I’ll take your word on it. But if he turns out to be actually shitty, I’m blaming you.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Waking up is a long and arduous process.</p><p>Tony claws his way back to consciousness with a picture in his mind – or, rather, multiple pictures – of an event that may have been last night or two weeks ago. Because time doesn’t really exist in white, pain-filled fog, and even though he’s sure he’s woken up before this feels different.</p><p>But the act of actually <em> being awake </em> is overrated, so. Tony keeps his eyes closed, feigns sleep, and lets his senses filter in slowly.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” someone says, a woman, familiar. It comes from somewhere to his right, but there’s a distinct shifting sound on the left, which means there’s more than one person here.</p><p>“Hey,” says the other voice, and though Tony can’t immediately think of a name, he conjures a face and loves it so fiercely that he almost forgoes his pretend-sleep. “It’s not your fault. If I’m honest, it was probably kind of inevitable.”</p><p>“I feel like a lot of things are just inevitable, when it comes to him,” says the woman.</p><p>More shifting to the left. “I think – I think we should talk about it. All three of us. Because it makes sense, you know? It just- it feels like that’s what we’re supposed to be.”</p><p>Their voices are warm, both of them, and quiet. Tired. Tony wonders what time it is, what day it is, how long he’s been drifting. How much of the conversation he’s missed, how much he will continue to miss before he finally decides to join them.</p><p>Turns out, not much, because they phase back into a comfortable silence. Tony hears breathing and the sound of action far away, behind walls and doors and in other places in the universe. Maybe all that should exist is right here in this room. Maybe that’s all life needs to be.</p><p>Either way, Tony slips back into sleep, comfortable for the first time in however long it’s been (and, miraculously, not knowing the time doesn’t bother him!), bracketed between two people he knows won’t let him go.</p><p> </p><p>He wakes up again, slowly and happily, and this time tears his eyes open. Soft light is filtering into the room, like it’s daylight but the sun is on the other side of the building, perhaps late afternoon. He wiggles his fingers.</p><p>As he does so, there’s some resistance, and he realizes belatedly that someone is holding his hand. That someone makes a sleepy <em> mmf? </em> sound, and Tony glances down to where his hand is and, oh, that’s what the general population would call <em> a boyfriend. </em></p><p>Connor is leaning back in one of the crusty plastic chairs, head tipped back and resting near (but not on) his right shoulder, yawning. His eyes are scrunched closed and his hair is unkempt and Tony forgets to breathe for a minute, because, <em> God. </em> He’s seen sleepy Connor so many times and yet it still fills him with the same amount of adoration as it did in the beginning.</p><p>He licks his lips and tries to say something, but all that comes out is a dry cough. Connor’s eyes fly open. “Tony?”</p><p>Since he has tried and failed once already to talk, Tony raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Hello,” he tries, as a last-ditch attempt, but it sounds more like <em> grgr-oh </em> than anything substantial.</p><p>“Oh my God,” says Connor, “oh God, thank you, <em> thank you, </em>holy shit, you’re awake, you’re okay.”</p><p>All of those observations seem to be correct, so Tony nods. Then he tries to move a little bit, angle himself towards Connor who is still somewhat frozen in his chair, but as soon as he moves anything below his neck, his stomach twinges painfully. A group of memories flood back into his mind:</p><p>Beating the absolute <em> shit </em> out of that icky blond guy and enjoying it, because he was sixty percent sure he was extorting Connor somehow, and in general he was causing a lot of threats and emotional pain and Tony was not going to stand for that.</p><p>(He glances down at his knuckles. Connor’s thumb is brushing over them, careful of the week-old bruise, but they’re clean of blood and in good hands. Or, in one good hand. Ha.)</p><p>Then, that icky blond guy <em> stabbed him </em>, which was not great.</p><p>Then he sat there for what felt like an entire minute, waiting for something to happen – although, looking back on it, it must have been more like half a second. But in his defense, there were a lot of emotions in that half a second, ranging from <em> ow fuck </em> to <em> if I die in the next five seconds am I going to be okay with this as a last message </em> to <em> oh my God he’s crying. </em></p><p>Right now, the <em> ow fuck </em> is still in his head, and, oh. So is the <em> oh my God he’s crying. </em></p><p>Tony swallows what little saliva has gathered in his mouth, and this time when he talks it’s a little more understandable. “Connor? What’s wrong?”</p><p>Connor shakes his head slowly, and as he does a smile starts to spread across his face, becoming so large it almost overtakes his entire being. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just happy you’re alive.”</p><p>“I am also happy I’m alive,” says Tony, punctuating it with a cough. “Do you think I could get some water?”</p><p>That spurs Connor into action: he lifts Tony’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them softly, then gets water and calls for a nurse and manages to stop crying before the nurse appears. She checks some things, gives Tony another shot for the pain, calls him a few pet names, and leaves again. Apparently he’s on the up-and-up, which is nice to know.</p><p>“It can only get better from here,” he says to Connor, who has resumed vigil in his crusty plastic chair.</p><p>Connor’s grip tightens around his hand. “I hope so.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony doesn’t broach the topic of the gang until his second day fully awake. Connor looks decidedly weary at the first mention of it, but when Tony offers to table it for another day, he shakes his head. “No, we need to talk about it. It’s been long enough.”</p><p>He tells Tony that it’s been a year and a half since he’d been stuck with his parents’ leftover debt and no way to pay it all, a year since he was so close to losing everything because of it, a year since he’d turned to the LAX as a last resort. Asked for a favor. Paid for it in service.</p><p>He tells Tony about each robbery, about each job he’d done and who it impacted, his roles, how he’d felt about it all in the moment, the sleepless nights after. He tells Tony about the rush job two weeks ago that he’d passed off as a mugging.</p><p> And then he says: “I was desperate, of course I was, but there was always one thing I would not do under any circumstances, and that was bring the danger anywhere close to you. And I guess that might not mean shit now, but I just – I wanted you to know."</p><p>Tony blinks a little at the speech, because what more can he do without moving his entire body? Connor is shaking slightly, he can feel the tremor through where their hands are connected, and right now Tony wants nothing more than to reach up and pull Connor into a hug, maybe run his hands through his hair, something soft.</p><p>Instead, he squeezes Connor’s hand as hard as he can. “You’re right,” he says, “you should have told me from the beginning. I know that you weren’t down for it, in the beginning, letting me know about your dark and secret past. But I went with you to your parent’s <em> funeral. </em> I could have helped.”</p><p><em> “I didn’t want to burden you,” </em> mumbles Connor. Tony pinches him. “Ow!”</p><p>“Connor Whisk, you listen to me, you are not a burden. And this is behind you now. As odd as it sounds, we’ll talk about talking about things, okay? You don’t have to trust me about everything right away. I’m not expecting you to. But where we are – where we <em> were </em> – I don’t want this to set it back. We’re on the right track.”</p><p>“We’re on the right track,” Connor repeats, a little shaky, steadying himself as he goes. “I love you.”</p><p>“I love you too,” Tony says. And he’s pretty sure that even if icky blond guy had properly killed him, if the last thing he’d said was some sort of weird curse, Connor would have known it. Still, he says it again, just to be sure. And then again because he can.</p><p> </p><p>Since they’re on a streak of talking about one Emotional™ thing each day, on the third day of Tony’s awareness, Ford joins them.</p><p>She seats herself in the other crusty plastic chair, the one on the right, and fits her hand so easily into Tony’s right hand it’s like it belongs there. She and Connor smile at each other, in a way that makes it seem like they have secrets, or like they’ve talked about things that Tony is not privy to.</p><p>But maybe he is, because Ford says, “So,” and Connor says, “The three of us,” and immediately Tony says, “Yes.”</p><p>Ford’s face squishes into one of fond confusion. “You don’t even know what we’re talking about yet.”</p><p>Tony looks back and forth between his two visitors. Both of them have been in and out, talking and laughing and existing and keeping him company, and even though Tony is bed-bound in a hospital it feels extra homely. Like just as much as Connor is a staple in his life, and hopefully always will be, Ford is filling in a space they didn’t know existed.</p><p>“I think I might,” he says. He looks at Connor and silently begs forgiveness, and then says, “Miss Ford, I do believe I’m fond of you.”</p><p>Connor shrugs, makes a sound that probably means <em> if we’re doing it that way, </em> and then says, “Detective, you’re growing on me as well.”</p><p>“Rather like a fungus, I’d imagine,” says Ford happily, “but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the same.”</p><p>And that’s the end of that conversation, at least until later that night, when Tony finally manages to sort out all the questions that have been stewing in his brain for the past three days and they all come spilling out in some sort of broken-trivia-machine fervor. Things like <em> what happened to the guy whose nose I broke? </em> and <em> are you going to prison? </em> and <em> does that mean we’re all dating now? </em> and <em> when are they going to let me eat things that aren’t pudding? </em></p><p>And there are answers to some of those questions, like <em> he’s getting charged with a lot of things </em> and <em> it depends on the court </em> and <em> yes </em> and <em> when they’re sure you won’t puke and ruin all the work they’ve done. </em></p><p>Only one of those answers is really important. Tony swears it’s the one about the food.</p><p>(Hint: it’s not the one about the food.)</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tony goes back to work after he’s been at home for over a month, recovering. The time has been spent doing things that are Not Physical Activity, which meant a lot of reading, a lot of writing, and a lot of sleeping. Connor has enjoyed the company; he’s at home until further notice (and Ford was correct, though his name is Shitty he’s actually a rather great lawyer) and it’s infinitely nicer to have someone else to spend time with.</p><p>He insists on accompanying Tony to work the first day. Ford is joining them, too, so it’s not like he’s breaking any rules – they’re calling it <em> supervision </em> , but really, she’d be there anyway – and together, the three of them walk into the office of the <em> Samwell Journal. </em></p><p>The first thing any of them hear is a massive shout of “TANGO!!”</p><p>Which is excellent, because they may have planned a bit of a party.</p><p>Tony stops at the door, one hand clutching his bag and the other open wide and sweet. “Oh my God.”</p><p>Inside the office are his bosses, who had been tipped off by Ford and ended up commandeering the entire return-to-work party; a smattering of coworkers Connor knows by name but not by face; Derek (still seated), who has somehow brought along Head Museum Security Dex (he looks only slightly perturbed by the whole thing); Ford’s partner Caitlyn and her husband; and a cat.</p><p>“Ah,” says Connor to Ford, over Tony’s shoulder. “That’s the cat he won’t shut up about.”</p><p>Tony, standing in the middle of the perfect pair of people, lets out a small noise that might be a squeal and says, “Oh my God you guys are fantastic I love you <em> I love you. </em>”</p><p>There’s a large banner on the far wall that says <b>WELCOME BACK FROM BEING HURT ☹</b> . Tony stumbles forward, staring at each member of the party in turn, <em> thank you </em>s spilling from his lips, and slowly the office comes alive again.</p><p>Lots of conversation, Connor notes, a lot of people who wouldn’t normally associate making friends with each other, and stack of food on one table with an insurmountable pile of baked goods. He’d called Bitty last week, wondering if he could buy a few pies for the event, and Bitty had refused payment and made twice the amount Connor requested.</p><p>“Good man,” says Ford, sidling up next to him. She nods at a tent of paper near the corner of the table. “He left you guys a note."</p><p>
  <em> Happy return to work! And, for the rest of you – because I know it’s not just Tony who’s been dealing with a shitstorm lately – take it from a seasoned veteran; it’ll all fall into place. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Connor, you are forgiven, and I hope you continue to bless the café with your big stomach and your lovely partners (yes, that is plural, I know everything) many times in the future. Tony, come around sometime if you’re still interested in the rest of the history stuff. Ford, thank you for everything. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Enjoy the goods! Love from the both of us. </em>
</p><p>On the table is not only the pies that Connor ordered but also cookies, a few different bread options, cinnamon rolls, and a plate of butter tarts with a glaring gap. They’ll probably have leftovers.</p><p>But then one of Tony’s bosses wanders over, plucks another butter tart from the plate, and swallows it in one bite, and Connor decides that no, they will not have leftovers. It’s probably better that way.</p><p> </p><p>The story of Gritty the Cat is not as exciting as originally thought. She’s not a stray, or a superhero, or a friend cursed to forever be a cat. It’s just that Adam and Justin’s landlord had done surprise inspections and they had to hide Gritty for a few days, but then Gritty found she liked the office much better than their apartment, so. Here she stays.</p><p>Justin tells this to Connor and Ford. They’re not sure if he ever got around to explaining it to Tony.</p><p>Tony joins them, then, leaning against the wall next to Connor and bumping his head lightly on Connor’s shoulder. “Thanks for this, guys,” he says.</p><p>“It was important to you,” says Connor. “Besides, if this is the only recreational event I’m allowed to attend for the next sixty days, I’ll take it.”</p><p>Because while the rest of the LAX got jail time, a combination of evidence from Tony’s tape recorder and the promise of information on other gang operations gave Connor a conditional sentence of <em> community service </em> and <em> stay at home when you’re not working </em> and <em> don’t do crime </em>. It’s a lot better than he expected, and so far it’s going great.</p><p>Having a comfortable home makes it all the better, and Tony is nothing if not comfortable.</p><p>Ford approaches the pair of them and says, in a happy sigh, “My boys.”</p><p>“That’s us,” Tony agrees, grabbing Connor’s hand and thrusting their joined hands towards her. “Get in here.”</p><p>So she reaches out and places a hand over top of theirs, and – like they had planned it – they come in from either side to make a hug-Ford-sandwich. Connor rests his chin on her head and Tony kisses him lightly on the cheek.</p><p>And then they stand together, next to the window in the office as the world goes on around them, continuing its ever-determined rotation through the universe.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>it's a travesty that shitty never makes an onscreen appearance but i promise you he is living his best life</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="http://impalahallows.tumblr.com">this is my tumblr,</a> come say hi!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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